Birds of a Feather Flock Together
by DevinBourdain
Summary: Superheroes: a preposterous idea that sounds crazy in theory and practice. It would make sense that a group of mentally unstable people would create a fantasy world were they were heroes that saved the world. If one was to pretend to be a superhero why go with archer but more importantly, Clint can't shake the feeling that it's all true. Then again crazy might be the new black.
1. Down the Rabbit Hole

Disclaimer: The Avengers characters are not mine, just borrowed for this story.

Reviews are always welcome and appreciated

**Birds of a Feather Flock Together**

**Chapter 1: Down the Rabbit Hole**

"_Clint_."

"_You're going to be alright Clint_."

Barton cracked an eyelid and shifted uneasily. "Is that what you know?" passed over his lips before he came back to his senses. The small, hard cot began a symphony, one that promised aches and pains, as he stiffly pushed himself into a sitting position. His hand rubbed at his forehead, a rhythmic pounding making itself ever more present in his conscious mind. He blinked a few times and took in his surroundings; the stark white room creating a chilling medical feel. Attempts to try to remember where he was and how such a place had become his surroundings failed miserably with a blank answer to show for it.

The plastic bracelet on his left wrist caught his attention next, turning it over to reveal the neatly typed information on the widest part. _Clint Barton_, well at least they got his name right. The padded walls and thick door with the observation window were a dead giveaway that he landed himself in the hospital, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of why that would be a common occurrence. Despite the information he was being given about his surroundings, which was enough to shake even the most sound individual, he found the truly terrifying part not to be where he was, but the fact that he couldn't remember much of anything. The archer's breathing picked up as panic rushed through him; his hands ghosted over his clothes looking for something that should have been there but he came up empty. His mouth twisted into a disapproving frown, the white scrub outfit just feeling incredibly wrong and out of place on him.

Clint's hands started to shake as the unknown slowly started peel back leaving terrifying clues in its wake. The dizzying array of cuts and scrapes along his hands and arms seemed like something that would stick out in the mind, how being the biggest detail, yet there was an absence of any explanation. The reasons for the wounds, the memories, seemed as though they were just out of reach, blurry shapes that were trying to come into focus. Nothing made sense, even if he was able to decode one or two. There were flashes, explosions, and a man in a metal suit accompanied by panic and the ever constant whisper of someone in his ear. Despite this lack of understanding of recent events, his earliest memories were surprisingly crystal clear. The days spent hiding from his father on the highest branch of the apple tree in the backyard, the accident that left Barney and him in the orphanage, and the day they ran away to join the circus; it all ran through his mind in high definition. The only things after the circus were guns, dead bodies, and the always present factor of blood.

Orders, he remembered getting orders to go on a mission. The weight of a sniper rifle was practically in his hands and faces flashed through his head, but emptiness settled in him more than any sense of connection to why and who came with the memory. All he was left with after a moment was a vague feeling of what his life had been like. He was definitely military trained and could almost remember saluting a black man with an eye patch on several occasions.

Another troubling thought occurred to Barton. Somewhere deep in his gut he had the feeling he was in the hands of the enemy, that this was so very wrong. The medical bracelet caught his eye again; surely the enemy wouldn't have left him unrestrained, have tended to his injuries. They wouldn't know his name and definitely wouldn't have given him a cot, it wasn't the most comfortable thing, but still seemed more than what was reserved for the enemy. Which begged the question, since they had treated him so differently, who the hell was he dealing with?

Clint got to his feet, keeping himself from emptying his stomach as he swayed for a few moments until the world settled. He took a shaky step towards the door, becoming more sure footed the closer he got. There were too many holes in the puzzle for him to feel confident, but Barton was rather impressed with how steady his hand was as it wrapped around the door handle.

The door clicked open giving Clint access to the hallway beyond; he poked his head out and glanced in either direction but there wasn't a soul in sight. Reluctantly his bare foot crossed the threshold followed by the other. The soft sounds of conversation and laughter drifted down the hall and Barton cautiously padded along towards them.

The archer came around the corner, to find that the origin of the delightful laugh were two women standing with files in hand. It was definitely a hospital because no one wore such brightly colored outfits outside of medical scrubs; he'd obviously stumbled upon the nurses' station. They both paused in their conversation to give him warm reassuring smiles, though Clint couldn't quite bring himself to return them.

"Good afternoon Mr. Barton. I didn't think you would be joining the group for free time today," chirped the blonde.

Barton's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Free time?"

"Yes, in the common room. There's still another hour there before dinner time, so lots of time to engage in some kind of activity." The blonde nurse looked expectantly at Clint.

Barton caught the sign on the wall directing people to the common room. "Right, free time," he nodded before moving in that direction. Though both women seemed friendly and non threatening, he couldn't find it in himself to turn his back to them as he made his way down the next hall.

There were no guards lurking the halls but every door was closed to him and the few he tried were closed tight. They weren't the most intimidating locks, probably offering minimal protest if he found something to pick them with, but they were locked all the same. The only ones that seemed capable of opening were a set of double doors at the end of the hall; Clint hesitantly pushed and they opened up to show a fairly large room. Abundant amounts of light flooded into the beige, neutral, colored space through multiple windows. Decor of the space seemed to followed the same idea of comfortable, yet efficient; there was a small TV in the corner, a well worn couch in front of it, a sad attempt at a library in the other corner, and several round tables in the center. On the opposite wall was another nurses' station and a set of reinforced double doors, which had a security pad requiring a pin to open.

All the occupants glanced up at the newest arrival but quickly returned to their activities, except the brunette sitting at the table as though he owned the place. The man produced an air of self importance, to where the personality trait of selfishness was nearly guaranteed, yet, he seemed to be rather interested in Barton's arrival. His companion on the other hand, seemed more interested in his drawing, not bothering to give Clint the intense scrutiny as the other man was. Seated on the couch, thoroughly engrossed in a book, was a man with curly brown hair and glasses; a sense of déjà vu tingled in the archer. There was something familiar about some of these people, like he should know the names that accompany the faces, yet it refused to come.

Across the room, a young nurse placed his clipboard on the counter and approached Clint; the archer couldn't help but size the man up, pinpointing the potential weaknesses to strike at should this turn ugly. Question was, why did he do that, why did he automatically assume that things would go bad?

"Ah, Mr. Barton, it's nice to see you up and about," greeted the nurse as he placed a hand on Clint's shoulder. "Why don't you come and join the group at the art table?"

A frown contorted the archer's face, but based on a serious lack of intel, he couldn't think of a reason to fight the gentle, but firm, grip that was guiding him. At least he might be able to engage in a fact finding mission or at least gain the opportunity to escape. The blond offered a small smile, glancing up from his drawing briefly, but the other man still held his scrutinizing stare from the moment Clint entered. Tension crept into his shoulders and he fought back the urge to offer a sarcastic quip to the man, whose name was on the tip of Barton's tongue.

The nurse, or Karl as the bright blue name tag suggested, placed a large blank paper and a cup of macaroni in front of Clint. "We're working on expressing ourselves through noodle art this afternoon." Raising his head to address the two men at the table, Karl wryly cautioned, "I shouldn't have to remind anyone _not _to eat the glue or the noodles."

The man sporting a goatee snorted, before offering a 'would anyone do that' look. He waited until the nurse left before sliding his chair closer to Clint and, without offering a hand, the man declared, "Tony Stark, and you are?"

The name rang a bell as flashes of memories came to Barton, like puzzle pieces snapping into place. The head of Stark Industries had his picture plastered everywhere, it was hard to go a month without hearing or reading something on his wild exploits, so why had his name escaped Clint earlier? And more importantly, why was he here? There was still the nagging doubt that said there was something more, that they actually knew each other, though Barton couldn't place why.

"I know who you are," snapped Clint, his frustration slipping out and finding release on the nearest target. Instead of irritation, the retort only caused Stark to lean back in his chair as he surveyed Barton again.

From over on the couch, the more timid man wearing glasses spoke up, though he never took his eyes off of his book. "Everyone knows who you are Tony."

Stark glanced over at the man on the couch, offering a twisted grin, before raising his hand and pointing at the blond. In a serious tone, he declared, "He didn't!"

"Steve's moral compass prevents him from knowing people like you." A small smile tugged at the corner of the man's mouth before he turned the page and wormed his way further into the comfort of the lazy boy.

Tony replied with an overly fake smile that screamed bite me before turning back to his source of current interest where he leaned closer nodding his head towards the TV area. "That's Bruce Banner and this yutz here is Steve Rogers." Steve offered a small nod in way of greeting as Stark waved his hand at Barton to ask, "And you are?"

The archer raised his left wrist displaying the clunky medical bracelet. "Clint Barton."

"Well Clint Barton, what's your issue?" The eccentric billionaire wiggled his eyebrows and leered.

Both Bruce and Steve glanced towards Clint with mild interest in his answer. Frowning at the sudden discomfort at being the center of attention and being completely in the dark as to what lie was going to smooth over the situation, Barton mumbled, "Issue?"

"Yeah, what's your brand of crazy?" elaborated Stark. He let out a sigh, as the answer from their newest member wasn't forthcoming in the slightest; clearly, he was going to have to use small words with this one. "Bruce over there, has anger management issues to the point where he freaks out and believes he turns into a giant rage monster, then claims he remembers nothing. Captain Peroxide over here, apart from being an ass, has PTSD, an overinflated sense of do-gooderness and delusions of grandeur." Tony put his hand by his mouth in the pretence of whispering but raised his voice to add, "He thinks he's the all mighty Captain America."

"Right, like you aren't delusional?" scoffed Steve, obviously irritated by the description of him.

"My delusions of grandeur are _not_ delusions," countered the billionaire with mocked offence, before turning his attention back to Clint. "Myself, well besides being incredibly awesome to the point where other people can't handle it, also have PTSD and narcissistic tendencies. It's alright if you don't want to share, I was just being nice. I already know. You, I managed to sneak a peek at your file the night that you arrived…"

"The night I arrived?" questioned Barton, hoping that the blurriness that he could remember would clear with the new information.

"It was quite the dramatic entrance, what with all the kicking and screaming and biting. Most excitement we had around here for days. Anyways, you can join our PTSD club and Bruce's anger management classes, what with the whole shooting your superior and all."

"Tony!" chastised Rogers.

An uneasy feeling ran through Clint. Everything he was hearing was painting the picture of some mental hospital and the bright white bracelet on his wrist was chaining him to that idea. He racked his brain trying to lock down a solid memory, something that would dispute the evidence gathering before him but they were all jumbled like colors washing down the drain. There was a little voice that screamed that this wasn't right, that everything Tony was saying, that the man seemed to believe so thoroughly, was a lie but the logic of the situation was hard to ignore. "I don't remember any of that," confessed Clint, his voice coming out a combination of defeated and broken.

"Are they giving you the green pills? The green pills will knock you on your ass like that," said Tony with an almost sympathetic glint to his eyes.

"Wait, when did I get here?"

"A couple of days ago," answered Steve, as though he was worried that Tony would say something to exacerbate the situation. "Dr Norris said you were having a hard time adjusting and wouldn't be joining us in group for awhile."

"Yes, we like to get together and hug it out once and awhile," interjected Stark with an impressive amount of sarcasm rivalled only by what Barton instinctively knew he could bring. Raising his voice so Karl and the other orderlies could clearly hear, he added, "That's when we're not gluing our troubles to paper with dry macaroni!" Tony punctuated his point further by throwing a handful of noodles in Karl's direction.

Karl raised an eyebrow but kept his calm, years of training and experience tempering his natural reaction. "Mr. Stark, if you're going to cause a scene you're going to be banned from free time again."

Using his flair for the dramatic, Tony quipped, "Oh god, whatever shall I do without arts and crafts time?" Ignoring the eyerolls of the other occupants in the room, he leaned over to Clint. "Seriously, you really should make a picture. It earns you bonus points in group, which short of slitting your wrist, can be the only thing that gets you out of caring and sharing hour with these freaks."

Assuming this truly was a mental institution, there was little doubt as to why Stark was confined within its walls but Clint still couldn't remember what would have led him down this path. His childhood memories, the relief of running to join the circus were crystal clear, but after that, the only thing he felt was feelings. The circumstances that were behind them were missing, clouded, and the last ten years continued to be burly flashes of random places and faces. Maybe that was why he was here, because he was missing so much?

Barton asked hesitantly, "What exactly did the file say?" He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Stark seemed to think it over for a moment. "Military, some sort of secret organization or such. Took a shot at your superior, lucky for the guy he was wearing a vest, rumour has it you're an extremely good shot. After that you suffered a complete breakdown culminating in you killing a fellow agent, all the while claiming some Norse god made you do it."

Something stirred in the archer as Tony relayed the information. The man's words were cold and factual but the emotions they awakened in Barton were molten and irrational. There was something familiar about that story, it just felt so right, like he could feel himself pulling his gun and shooting the man with the eye patch. Was that his superior and why couldn't he put a name to that face?

Clint watched Tony get back to his art project; it looked vaguely like some sort of schematic, though it was made all the more crud by the materials comprising it. The blank page sat before the archer taunting him with its comparable emptiness. The last time he had made a macaroni picture he was six and it was going to be a gift for his mother, not having any money didn't mean he wanted to forget her birthday. It was the last art project he ever did, and while it didn't signify a thoughtful moment in his life, it did culminate in a hard lesson learned. His father had returned home early and promptly taught him not to waste food in such a fashion. The wounds had long since healed but they ached just a little as Clint reached out to grab a handful of noodles and arrange them on the page. It wasn't a pleasant sensation but it was real and currently the only thing he knew for sure.


	2. Tony Stark: Genius, Billionaire, Playboy

**Chapter 2: Tony Stark: Genius, Billionaire, Playboy, Philanthropist, Crazy Person**

Tony tried to block out the constant sound of Rogers scribbling away at the pad of paper. In all fairness, scribble wasn't a fair description of the modicum of talent the man possessed. Whatever you wanted to call it, the blond and what his hands did had managed to get under Stark's skin from the moment they had met and thus, everything he did aggravated Tony. Even the damn scribbles. At least their newest member of the gang of the mentally imbalanced had the decency to act like the whole situation was screwy. Steve seemed too accepting of everything, following the shrink's advice to the letter with little to no hesitation. It seemed like he finally had a sane person in the room with him because even if Barton did not say it aloud, he shared Tony's vibe that appearances were deceiving.

The minimalistic setting was a huge contrast to the glory that was his Malibu estate, but that was true no matter where he was; the main thing he could do without was the inspirational posters that were plastered all over the walls. He imagined the hallow halls of this place were pretty quiet before he arrived, though he did take credit in the fact that the nursing staff was definitely earning their pay now that they didn't have just the golden boy to tend to. Bruce however kept to himself after he arrived despite Tony's attempts to form some sort of camaraderie with the fellow scientist.

The clock on the wall struck five and Karl began his task of rounding up the herd for dinner. The billionaire shuddered at the thought of eating the grey mush that often passed for food in this place. He may not be running his company at the moment but surely someone could attach a bonus to his cheques to ensure editable meals from time to time. He was _Tony Stark _for god's sake.

Stark bit back a retort to all the oohs and ahs the orderlies showered upon Rogers' latest creation in favour to sticking close to Barton. The man was trying to hide his unease but Tony could see the subtle signs. Like his immediate dislike of Steve and ease with Bruce, there was something in Barton that instantly clicked into place, something that made him want to wrap the man in bubble wrap.

The four walked down the hall to the cafeteria, not under guard, but never far from a watchful eye ready with restraints and a quick tranquilizer to ease their pain. The nurses at the main desk offered welcoming smiles and blushed when Steve returned them; Clint scoffed and looked elsewhere. Bruce still had his nose stuck in his book and Clint was rather impressed at the man's spatial awareness that he didn't walk into anything. It also lent credit to the fact that he had probably been there for awhile and thus backed Tony's earlier explanations. The slight edge that appeared in the nurses' gazes as he and Stark walked past definitely signified that they were trouble. Part of Barton secretly wished he could remember his arrival just for the sheer satisfaction of having made their lives difficult.

There was that weird feeling again. As far as he knew, he had never met those nurses before, so why would he take any joy in making them miserable? There was also the fact that despite his lone wolf tendencies, he had allowed Stark to stick close by; it almost made him feel safe. The last time he had the same feeling had been when Barney had pulled him into a secret cubbyhole their parents had yet to find, in order to protect him from his parents' version of dodge ball, the one played with empty bottles of Jack instead of balls.

He had never been a trusting soul, the world providing example after example of the stupidity of giving anyone any part of you when they always crushed it like a piece of garbage, but all three men exuded a trustworthiness that was hard to ignore. Perhaps they were kindred souls, enjoying another lifetime of friendship that didn't seem to quite transcend into this lifetime.

The cafeteria seemed rather large considering it was only the four of them; the other three large rectangle tables remained empty as the group sat at the one in the middle. Bruce took the chair at the end, still more interested in his book than anything in the real world, while Steve took the hard plastic chair one down from Banner. Tony tugged at Barton's shirt sleeve, pulling him to the opposite side as Steve and several seats down. It didn't take a genius to know that the new arrival was highly dangerous and even if he wasn't mentally unstable, putting hands on the man was probably inadvisable but he didn't feel threatened. It was probably the medication, but the inventor couldn't shake the feeling that he could safely put his life in Clint's hands and that was more interesting than anything that had happened in months.

Karl left his charges without as much as a word, locking the door behind him. Tony caught the way Barton flinched as the lock snapped in place giving the whole situation a more prison like feel. "It's so we don't go postal, take our plastic spoons and go on a killing spree through the halls," explained Stark, with as much levity as he could muster. He remembered his first few days at the facility all too well, the fear, paranoia, the terrible sensation of being utterly alone in every sense of the word. It was incredibly disheartening, knowing that the world and your life were just beyond the lifeless beige walls, but you were trapped in a padded box. A box that was excluded, forbidden from participating in the world that you knew to be yours, it hurt, and so, Tony stayed as close as he could to Clint.

Tony smiled brightly as Frank made his way from the kitchen area carrying a tray with four plastic cups; the fake pleasantry lasted until the orderly had deposited a cup in front of him and moved on to the next disturbed soul. The inventor dumped the contents of the cup on the counter, watching the rainbow of pills roll and clink before him. He had his sorted into little piles by color and shape before he noticed Barton staring at his cup wearily.

"I'll trade you a pink triangle for one of your greens."

Clint snorted and shook his cup of pills again. "You take these willingly?"

Stark shrugged his shoulders. "It's the least painful method. They get a little uppity if you don't take your meds. This beats being tied down and having needles stuck in you, trust me."

Tony had no more mentioned needles than image of Frank looming over him pushing something through an IV came to mind. The archer's heart started to race; the memory was too jumbled to decide whether the man was trying to help or hurt Barton, but the feelings of panic and desperation washed over him all the same. As the memory cleared he could feel Frank's eyes on him, the man was at the kitchen door watching like a hawk. Deciding it was the lesser of the potential evils, Barton downed the contents of the cup in one go. Whatever was going on around there, he was going to have to take his time in piecing it together; there was too much of an unknown threat lurking for any kind of outright revolt.

"What mush do you have for us today Bill?" asked the billionaire as the next orderly collected their empty medication cups and placed the very unappetizing food trays down in front of them.

"It's not mush Mr Stark, it's meatloaf and if you don't like it you don't have to eat dinner," Bill replied.

"You'd think with what my people pay this place, that starving the patents would be frowned upon," said Tony to Bill's retreating back. He picked up the plastic fork and poked at the depressing lump of food. If ever there was a reason to be declared sane it was to get out of that place and go buy a cheeseburger, hell at this point he was willing to buy a whole chain of burger joints.

Tony had become so engrossed in determining the species that was evolving on his plate that Barton startled him when he spoke, flinching away from his companion.

"So you read my file on why I'm here, was there anything else in there?"

The question had such a genuine and honest quality to it that Tony couldn't help but feel bad for the guy, assuming Clint's claim that he couldn't remember anything that lead him to the facility was true. He on the other hand could remember everything before arriving here in crystal clarity despite his fondest desire to not. "I only had a few moments with it. Basically got through the summary on the first page, never saw the good stuff they bury further in the report. Sorry."

The archer nodded a little dejectedly and went back to pushing the gelatinous blob that passed for peas around his plate. After a moment he asked, a little more subdued, "How did you end up here? I mean, you'd think someone as well off as you would be someplace that at least serves a little better food, not to mention more _individualized_."

The smile didn't quite reach Tony's eyes but he tried to shrug off whatever ghosts popped into his head. "My parents died when I was young." The words hung in the air as the muscles around Stark's eyes twitched to hold back the tears that had been so skilfully held back for decades. He chewed over his next words until he was certain he had the momentary lapse under control. "Obadiah Stane, family friend and business partner stepped up to the plate. He looked after the company and me until I was old enough to take the helm."

The billionaire cleared his throat. Maybe the medication had kicked in, but he was glad that his new sidekick wasn't rushing him. Hell, the guy had the decency to look overly enamoured with the meatloaf when Stark started to trail off. "Long story short, a business trip to Afghanistan didn't go so well and I ended up spending a few months in a cave being tortured and then there's this thing," he explained before lifting up his shirt to reveal the arc reactor.

Clint cocked his head to the side as he took in the combination of technological brilliance and medical ingenuity. His hand started to rise to reach out and touch it, when he flinched back violently, clutching his hand as though it had been burned. The memories that had been streaks of color took on a distinctly blue tinge and his chest began to ache. It became hard to breathe, and he had to fight for each gasp of air he managed to pull into his lungs.

Tony watched with increasing alarm as Barton began to panic, the action wasn't out of place within those hallow walls but the cause raised an alarm within the inventor as well. He quickly pulled his shirt down and placed his hands on Clint's shoulders, fists clenching the fabric of his shirt tight and offering support to the trembling man.

"Look it's gone, it's alright Barton," soothed Tony, "You're going to be alright Clint."

The word hurts almost as much as the blue ice that was coating his past. There was something familiar and reassuring in that sentiment but it wasn't Stark's voice he heard when they were spoken. He got his breathing back under control only to realize that everyone's eyes were on him. Banner had stop with his spoon hovering in front of his lips, an odd look of concern for someone he had only met an hour earlier. Rogers was staring while trying to appear as though he wasn't, while the two orderlies were watching the situation with increasing attention, ready to jump in and remedy the situation with an arsenal of needles, pills and padded restraints.

"What did you say?" panted Barton as he locked eyes with Tony.

Stark glanced towards the orderlies who were itching to intervene and remove the future problem, shaking his head slightly in warning. They backed off but didn't retreat completely into the kitchen. Tony was all too familiar with irritated nurses deciding to subdue their problem patient and had no desire to watch Barton withstand their not so tender mercies. Focusing back on his companion he replied, "I said, you're going to be alright. Just breathe, in and out, there you go."

"Sorry, I don't know what happened."

"No worries. Crazy's kind of a common occurrence around here. You didn't spook the wild life."

"Did that seem normal to you?" asked the archer with a conviction that screamed he was certain it wasn't.

"Normal?" chucked Stark. "I think the very definition of normal is why we're here and not wandering around with the normal people.

"No, that's not what I meant. Your… thing…"

"Arc reactor," supplied Tony.

"Whatever, your arc reactor, Bruce's supposed anger issues and Steve's superhero complex, don't you feel as if they're something more, like all this isn't right?"

"Look I get it, I had the same feelings when I arrived. I flipped out and accused Obe of orchestrating my kidnapping and I thought I turned the means to my escape into this superhero but those feelings go away Barton. Reality sucks but it does get clearer around here, just give it time." Tony watched as Clint nodded and slumped back in his chair. He had been trying to reassure the man but he wasn't sure if he was really convincing Barton or himself.

There was an odd parallel to their stories. True, Tony remembered everything that had led to him being committed and more than what he had been told happened. He remembered the events in Afghanistan and returning back to civilization, even if someone had said that he didn't know what he was talking about. Someone actually bringing him to the facility, being processed and admitted, those things were a blank. He could recall battling Stane in his Iron Man suit but after that, his next clear memory was waking up in his room, staring at padded white walls wondering how the hell he got there. Barton's underlying belief that things were not copasetic reawakened the idea that the shrinks around there had spent weeks convincing him was nothing more than a coping mechanism for the trauma he had suffered.

The pair ate their supposed meal in silence, both seeming to hold onto the idea that maybe they did belong there. Things always seemed easier to accept with a full stomach around there.


	3. Morally Correct, Mentally Unstable

**Chapter 3: Morally Correct, Mentally Unstable **

Night had settled, not that one could tell from inside the small rooms assigned to the patients. The only thing that marked the passage of time inside the confined, padded walls of the individual rooms were the lights; when they turned on at eight, when the sun started to peak, and when they extinguished at nine, darkness filling in. The soft artificial light from the hallway filtered through the long rectangular observation window in the door but other than that, once the darkness filled the room there was nothing but sleep and one's nightmares to keep them company.

Steve tossed and turned trying to find the elusive embrace of sleep but found himself to be unsuccessful. Usually his mind ran through battles and the time before he had awakened in the hospital, many times the details becoming warped due to the nature of dreams, but this night he was occupied with all things concerning newest addition seemed so lost compared to the others when they had arrived. Stark, besides immediately rubbing Rogers all the wrong ways, had taken to getting attention in any way possible and after the first few days had accepted his current situation with minimal hostility. Bruce had been rather withdrawn from the get go, preferring solitude in lieu of interaction, and at times seemed nearly relieved in the constant containment. Clint had just come across like he was waiting to wake up from a bad dream or was about to plunge into a bigger nightmare. There was a lack of acceptance with the newest member; Rogers knew why he was here, as did the others, and while they may not like it, they did not fight their existence here. But Barton was, he was fighting like none of them had.

There was something so familiar about the smaller man, like they had known each other for years but that wasn't true. Steve remembered all the members of his unit even if the memories were clouded with the delusion of the events of his life taking place during World War Two. The only thing Steve could say for certain that they had in common was their current residence and an inability to remember their arrival to the facility. He brushed it all off as a side effect from the new prescription the doctor had prescribed and vowed to talk it through with Dr Norris tomorrow.

* * *

The day started and proceeded with the usual monotony the facility orchestrated. Everyone filed into the cafeteria for their glob of oatmeal and cup of pills, the behavior of all more subdued due to the earliness of the meal. The shenanigans, caused mainly by Tony, usually waited until Lunch; then, everyone was awake to be irritated, patient and worker alike.

For the most part Barton stuck to Stark's side like glue, following the billionaire around like a lost puppy, and Steve wasn't surprised when the pair came to group together. A flutter of irritation spiked within Rogers as Tony grabbed one of the chairs, twisting it around to sit on it backwards while sliding closer to Clint's chair. He really had no idea why he even bothered coming in early to set up the room, what was the point when Tony consistently rearranged the evenly spaced chairs; though, he suspected, that it was just another thing Stark used to annoy him.

Practicing the breathing techniques he had been taught by Dr. Norris, Steve took in a deep cleansing breath, held it to the count of ten, before releasing it. He continued silently until the building urge to knock the smug inventor on his ass dissipated and Dr Norris entered the room.

The doctor stumbled through the door, arms precariously balancing a load of files, nick-knacks and an extra large coffee. Dumping his burden onto the chair next to his, Norris began his pre-meeting ritual of painstakingly arranging his items with a certain amount of anal retentiveness.

A sleep mussed Banner padded in a few minutes before the hour, rubbing his eyes as he slumped into his chair. The group waited in silence for the clock to strike eleven, never being allowed to start a second early under the instruction that routines and order were just as important as any other part of the program. Bruce fought back a series of yawns while Barton was a ball of nervous energy, clearly not having accepted his current situation in the twenty-four hours he'd been up and about. Steve and Tony were engaged in their usual tense stare off until the minute hand struck twelve breaking the spell.

"Alright gentlemen," began Dr Norris, pausing to take a large sip of his coffee, "where would we like to begin today?"

All eyes immediately became fascinated with the floor at the prompt and an awkward silence replaced the tension. Norris turned his piercing gaze to each patient, watching as they ran a hand through their hair, stretched neck muscles or curled in on themselves in turn. It was the same thing every time and Norris no longer found himself surprised when he had to force someone to volunteer despite the claims that his patients wanted to get better. His gaze finally settled on their newest member pausing for a moment to see if Barton would take the initiative to speak up without urging. Despite the warnings issued around their newest resident, the young man came across as docile, the kind of fodder that Stark would chew up, filling his head with impossibilities and leave a quivering mass on the floor

Each man let out a sigh of relief as the doctor's gaze flickered over them, finding another target to start the morning. Steve felt somewhat bad for Clint as the young man made himself even smaller, almost hiding behind Tony when it became evident that Norris had found his first subject.

"Mr. Barton how about you start us off this morning?" While the man himself was slightly wrinkled with a touch of gray, Norris's voice was warm yet direct. He was meant to be a friend to the patients, yet the question sounded more like a demand and the warmth reeked of authority.

"Uh... I ... I don't know how to do... whatever this is," stumbled Clint clenching his left hand as though gripping something familiar, something that should be there with him but like his recent memories was noticeably absent.

The doctor opened his notepad, fumbling with the lid of his pen before finally settling into a position to write. "Why don't you start by tell us about yourself."

That idea was easier said than done. What did he remember about himself? In the face of the limited information he had obtained yesterday, the whole insane asylum thing seemed plausible enough, especially after yesterday's events. Yet, after dinner, in the dark of the night, the nagging doubt had begun to resurface. The undeniable feeling that these people didn't actually have his best interests at heart had regained a hold over him, but after a morning under Stark's guidance, things seemed to be falling into place once again. The medication must be working but his memories of the last few years were still an untouchable block of blue ice that he couldn't seem to chip away at.

It was the ultimate debate; did he trust his gut, remaining uncooperative, or did he trust that these people were going to fix him, give him back his life. Either way, he knew he didn't want to spend the rest of his life in this place.

"Um... okay?" The words sounded hollow but he was determined to try and make the best of the situation. The rare flashes he did get regarding his past were so impossibly absurd, they had to be the delusions of a crazy person, because really, aliens and glowing blue eyes? "Clint Barton and I don't really remember what happened before I got here."

It was one thing to admit that to himself, another to share that information with his three co-patients who seemed to generate an ease within him, but it was a completely other thing to admit it to a stranger and the universe at large. With such a confession, the weight should have been lifted, but instead, it felt like admitting a weakness to the enemy. Now, he felt like he was at the man's mercy.

Norris thumbed through one of his files pulling out several photographs. "That's often a normal response to your situation," he offered a smug smile, one that Clint now decided he hated. _Asshole._ "People will sometimes block out traumatic events to protect themselves. I want you to know this is a safe place where you can share anything you think you remember, whether it seems real or not."

Clint nodded more, mainly to get the patronizing look off the Doctor's face. Did they really expect him to blindly accept the fact that he could dump his most twisted thoughts and memories out there for everyone to see? Where they could judge with their high morals and opinions without having served their term in his hell? He nodded all the same.

Dr Norris held up a glossy eight by seven, his expression as bland and static as the picture itself. "Do you recognize this man?"

The archer looked at the photo, scrutinizing every inch like it held the secrets to the universe. He recognised the man, black leather coat, eye patch; he remembered putting a bullet in him but the name was not forthcoming. "Yes, but I... I don't remember who he is," breathed Barton, swallowing down the panic that was starting to rise. He never missed a shot, that much he knew for certain. If he had shot this man then he was surely dead, another nameless soul painting blood on his hands.

"This is your commanding officer, Director Fury. He was with you when your episode started," explained Norris.

Steve flinched in his seat, recognition dawning on him as well and he wavered slightly while staring. The only memory of Fury he could come up with was waking up in the hospital before being shipped back to the states, the man had definitely been there then, just before everything went crazy.

Clint chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to build up the courage to ask the question he instinctively knew the answer to. Though, that didn't mean he didn't hold out hope that this once he could be wrong. "Did I... is he dead?"

The doctor's eye twitched slightly and he paused as if trying to figure out the best way to answer the question. "_Director Fury_ isn't dead."

Keeping his eyes on the ground, Barton could still see the others' reactions in his peripheral vision. To his great surprise, there wasn't horror on their faces. If anything, they seemed sympathetic, like they could understand exactly what it was like to be responsible for something so horrific yet be blissfully unaware of the damage they had caused.

The implication of Norris's precise wording wasn't lost in the midst of his short lived relief. "But I did kill _someone_." Clint subconsciously dropped his shoulders more. Memories that were just out of his reach were tinted blue but the ones that assaulted his mind constantly were dripping with red. Maybe it wasn't the worst thing in the world that he couldn't remember all of his past. "Who was it?"

The doctor flipped through his papers, searching for the information that everyone seemed to be on the edge of their seats waiting for. He scanned the page coming up with a name that twisted his lips in an unfamiliar pattern. "uh... an Agent Philip Coulson."

Barton's head snapped up at the same time his three other comrades went painfully rigid. No one said anything, letting the silence wrap around Clint's pounding heart. Something inside of him screamed that that wasn't right, Coulson wasn't dead; he wasn't certain who the man was, but he was definitely alive.

The name sparked something within Stark, a vague flash of an extremely commonplace man in a suit. He could almost picture the man with Pepper, but that was impossible. Why would he know someone that Barton knew? He wasn't a soldier like Rogers and Clint were, but even in his dealings through weapons contracts, he had never met the man. Tony absently thought he'd try and relieve Bruce of one of his little yellow pills at dinner, maybe that would help with these new weird feelings.

Bruce shifted in his seat, wringing his hands to try and shake out the uneasiness that was running through him at the mention of Agent Coulson. It was a tingling feeling that flooded his system as the name rolled off of Norris's lips but he couldn't place the connection. There was just a sensation of calmness and reassurance that stemmed from hearing the foreign yet familiar name.

Rogers' fingers twitched, and he had to clench his fist to make it stop. Uneasiness swept over him, the kind of feeling one gets when they couldn't remember if they left the stove on or not. There was something he had to do, something he was going to do for this _Coulson_, but what? He mentally ran through his rolodex of people he knew but there was no Phil to be found. The name should mean nothing to Steve but for some reason it was important.

"Ow!" hissed Banner, bringing all eyes over to him and Stark, who was trying to subtly lean back in his chair away from Bruce.

Clint breathed a sigh of relief, no longer being the center of attention, while Rogers and Norris looked rather annoyed at the intrusion.

Stark offered an unapologetic smile to the group at large and a pointed wink at Barton. They may have just met but he felt like he owed it to the guy to look out for him. He gave Bruce a slight shrug, he wasn't going to apologise for stabbing Bruce with a thumb tack. Banner's crazy claim was he turned into a giant green monster when agitated, in the name of science, Tony felt he had to prove or disprove this theory.

"Mr. Stark, what have we told you about attacking Dr. Banner with pointy objects," lectured Norris sternly, his eyes taking on a hard edge.

Tony rolled the tack around in his hand giving the impression of nonchalance. "Is he still licensed if he's certifiable?"

"I'm not that kind of doctor," Bruce grumbled at the constant error and the fact that he should have just listened to his mother and gone into medicine to avoid constant confusion.

"You will not terrorize the other patients," warned Norris, "or we will be force to restrain you in your room."

"Who told you I was into that?" replied Stark not bothering to hide his impish grin. A tense standoff between him and the psychiatrist waged for several minutes, neither willing to back down. Feeling the tension within the group start to rise once again, the billionaire relented, lazily getting to his feet and dropping the tack into Norris' hand. It wasn't like he couldn't get another one if he really wanted to, or something more effective. He offered Steve an amused smirk as the soldier glared at him while he took his seat once more. It figured someone like Rogers would end up in a place like this, all those morals and righteousness would make anyone go crazy.

The steady scribble of Norris's pen, completing pages of notes, etched into everyone's nerves. It was moments like these, the defining silence of waiting that forced each patient to dwell on the defects that had brought them to this place; the reasons as to why they could no longer function within everyday society and had been sent here for their own good. It was an introspection that none wanted to face and it was hard to hold back the personal demons in the face of such silence and solitude.

"I think this is probably the best place to stop for the day, especially since some of us don't feel the need to take this seriously. There's clearly some material that we need to discuss further in our individual sessions, so keeping that in mind, I will be pulling you out separately throughout the day tomorrow." The doctor gestured towards the door and Banner, Barton and Stark quickly fled.

Steve slowly got up and began stacking the chairs in the corner. He waffled back and forth on whether to mention his recent concerns to Norris or wait for another time. Deciding to heed the man's previous advice, that getting things off one's chest sooner rather than later was more beneficial than bottling it all up, Rogers spoke up. "I wanted to talk to you about something Dr. Norris."

"I'm all ears Steve," prompted the doctor, staking his chair next to Rogers' pile.

"Those dreams are back. You know... the ones where I'm fighting aliens." The staff at the facility had always gone out of their way to make it feel like it was a safe place, free of judgement where the patients, where he, could figure out their issues. It was crucial to the healing process, to share, but for some reason, Steve always felt a little embarrassed discussing his delusions. There had to be some defect within himself that would create such a preposterous idea, let alone believe that it was reality. He had to share, he had to heal.

Norris nodded his head sympathetically. "What do you think brought them on this time?"

Steve shrugged, like he didn't even want to admit the facts that he desperately wanted to be true. "They started when Barton joined us. There's something about him that, he just seems familiar, like he was there or something." He frowned, the words didn't exactly make sense to him, how was he going to explain it to someone else?

"You mean he served with you? I've seen his records, Steve, I can guarantee you he wasn't in your unit."

"No, not in the war... at least not that one." Rogers began to fidget with the hem of his shirt and he couldn't bring himself to look the psychologist in the eye. "I think he was one of the Avengers."

Norris let out a frustrated sigh. It was trying to see a patient take a giant step back. "We've been over this Steve. You weren't alive to fight in World War Two and you certainly weren't frozen and brought back to fight aliens in New York."

"I know, it's crazy, but I just... I can picture him there in New York with us." Steve hated how desperate he sounded but there were moments he desperately wished his identity crisis was real and he was Captain America. He wanted to be strong, virtuous and morally untouchable, not some pathetic soul that was destined to languish in the dim light of the mental ward.

Norris' interest was piqued. "Us? Since when did this fantasy include an 'us'?"

"Tony said..." started Rogers.

"Ah, Mr Stark. I should have known. And who gave you the name the Avengers?"

The blond's gaze flickered to the ground, his lip pinched between his teeth. Tony had told him to lie about it so many times but there was something in Steve that made it impossible for him to lie. Lying was wrong and it had just gotten him into his current situation anyways. Sheepishly he replied, "Tony came up with it."

"There are no _Avengers,_ Steve, that's just Mr Stark trying to confuse you for his own personal amusement. I think you want to believe him because you're still upset about the letter Peggy sent you." The doctor offered Steve a sad smile that mirrored his patronizing tone.

The letter from Peggy had stung but he had to read it, even though Dr Norris suggested he shouldn't. There was still a chance that she could see reason and be willing to come back to him, but the letter just confirmed how happy she was with Bucky and that they were getting married that summer. Anger flashed through Rogers as he remembered the neat script written with care and attention, detailing how she and Bucky had found each other and were in love. She was sorry of course and didn't mean to hurt him, but he was so far away and Bucky was right there and he needed her. She wouldn't have been there for Bucky if Steve hadn't asked _his_ girlfriend, the love of _his_ life to go and visit his now former best friend in the hospital. He had felt bad that Bucky had been injured, he had wanted to make his friend feel better and if he couldn't be there to support him during his recovery then the other most important person in Steve's life could be. He had pushed his girl into another man's arms.

"Look, I know you created this Captain America identity after Ms Carter left you as a way to cope. No one in their right mind would leave someone like him, full of virtue and loyalty, but he is not real Steve. Life is messy and terrible things happen, it doesn't matter how righteous you are. Being Captain America isn't going to shield you from heartache. Convincing yourself that Ms Carter and Mr Barnes are not here in your life because you were frozen for seventy years is not going to make what happen hurt less. You've made such progress, do not let Mr. Stark and Mr. Barton pull you back into that place. They don't mean to hurt you, but they have their own issues to deal with and will not realize that keeping you in this fantasy will only make it worse for you. Genuine concern flowed off of Norris as he watched to see if Rogers was really listening to what he had to say.

Offering his hand to the doctor, Rogers offered his thanks before shaking hands and heading back to his room. His nerves had been eased but his mind was still going a mile a minute. He wanted so bad to be Captain America, a pillar or moral virtue that could do no wrong, who always saved the day. If he could have been that, if he could have been better than Bucky, then Peggy would never have run away with him. He certainly wouldn't be stuck at the facility with the likes of Tony Stark. His mother had always taught him to be good and do the right thing. Apparently he wasn't good enough; he couldn't even bring himself to be a little bit happy that his best friend and the woman he loved more than anything had true happiness in their lives. His response was to have a psychotic break in the middle of battle and land himself in an insane asylum, letting down his unit and himself.

It had to be the similarities in Barton's story that set him off again. They were both soldiers, both let down their units, both hurt people that were on their side. Steve curled up on his cot, pressing his pillow as hard as he could against his ears. The voices of the past whispered their familiar lies and he clenched his eyes tight in focus; he had to shut them out. He could ignore them, he _had _to. To put this all behind him and go on with his life was the light at the end of the tunnel. He would be normal and sane if it was the last thing he did.


	4. Inner Rage Monsters and Imaginary Friend

**Chapter 4: Inner Rage Monsters and Imaginary Friends**

Banner assumed his usual position in the overstuffed arm chair in the corner of the common room beside the large picture windows. It was quiet and warm with the sun beating down during mid afternoon. The book he selected off the shelf wasn't particularly enthralling but he focused on it as though it was the only thing in the world. In truth, it was the only thing between him and being the sole focus of Stark.

The man just didn't seem to get that Banner wanted to left alone. It didn't have to be this way, with him as a recluse; in another life he likely would have been friends with the inventor. There were many attributes that he found nearly endearing about the billionaire, but it wasn't advisable for Bruce to make friends. Bad things happened to people he got close to. He couldn't explain it without sounding like he was insane, but rage would just come over him and everything would become lost in a green haze. It was all blurs and missing moments in time and when he finally would come back to his senses, the people around him were hurt or worse...

He let out a sigh before turning the page and refocusing his effort to drown out Tony's incessant chatter.

"Did you see the way Captain Kiss Ass was sucking up to Norris? I mean come on..." rambled Stark as he readjusted his feet on the coffee table.

Rolling his eyes, Bruce peered over the top of his novel. "Do you ever get tired of listening to yourself?" snapped the doctor in the calm yet irritated manner he had perfected since knowing Stark.

"I'm not talking for my benefit, I'm talking for yours."

"Talking to yourself is probably on the list of items that puts you in an insane asylum," noted Banner. Shifting so he didn't have a direct line of sight with the current source of irritation, he actively refused to meet Tony's eyes. Eye contact was practically an invitation to endure the sufferings of the inventor's ramblings.

"You my friend, have to let loose. This tightly contained, show no emotion thing is going to blow up in your face," he countered.

"It's going to blow up in your face if I don't," warned Bruce.

The tight set of the doctor's jaw and sudden cold indifference told Tony the conversation was over. "This isn't healthy, you really need to let loose and strut before that so called imaginary friend of yours gets fed up and frees himself all over one of the doctors," warned Tony as he slid off the couch. Straightening his ever fashionable institute issued shirt in some need to save face in front of Banner's cold dismissal, he marched past Bruce. His back was rigid, as he personified his indifference to being ignored despite the rejection he must have felt on the inside.

Once Stark was out of sight, a small frown graced Bruce's features. He sighed. Normally he wasn't so standoffish with people and enjoyed the company of others, especially those who could hold up such intellectually fascinating conversations as the billionaire, but distance had to be kept. The inventor had clearly displayed zero sense of self preservation and if he didn't have enough sense to stay away, the doctor would just have to enforce it himself. Even with the best intentions in mind, guilt still coiled tightly in his chest every time he dismissed Tony. The guy was clearly looking for something real and tangible in a sea of sedatives, delusion and revolving door of highly trained professionals. If Bruce was completely honest with himself, he wanted the same.

While Tony clearly wanted a friend or probably more accurately a partner in crime, Rogers just wanted to exist and Bruce found himself slowly gravitating towards the blond over the last few weeks. Stark was clearly irked by the development, stepping up his persistence to get Banner to engage in some untold nightly raid of the kitchen and other nefarious activities. Time after time, Bruce's resolve held even as his conscience grew heavy. Steve, like Bruce, embraced the program offered at the facility in the hopes of putting their issues behind them. They may have vastly different approaches on how to obtain that goal, Steve jumping in with both feet, grabbing every opportunity offered by Norris, while Banner opted for a more internal self driven recovery. The green rage monster might be a figment of his imagination but the results of his anger were real to everyone.

Banner cocked an eyebrow and glanced over the top of his novel, the springs in the old couch singing the arrival of a new occupant. Barton was coiled in a tight ball, knees bent under his chin, trembling slightly; it was a sight that warranted a second glance from Bruce. The doctor bit his lip, debating whether or not to address his new companion. The residual guilt from turning Stark away earlier made it impossible to turn yet another soul in need of company out into the cold. With a heavy sigh he set the novel down on the table; he was never going to finish his tenth run through that particular book at this rate.

"You want to talk about it?" asked Bruce, taking his glasses off to clean them with the corner of his shirt.

Barton's head shot up, having been startled by the question; it was if he had never known someone else was in the room. "What?"

"I said, do you want to talk about it?"

"I just spent three hours talking about it. It didn't help," muttered Clint, keeping his eyes on the ground.

Bruce was familiar with the intensity of Norris' one on one sessions and just how emotionally draining they could be. "It gets better," he offered with a sincerity born of experience.

"From where I'm sitting, I don't see it getting better. In fact, it seems to get worse by the minute." Clint scrubbed his hand over his face but paused to stare at the trembling limb. Unable to steady his hand, he quickly tucked it between his chest and knees, just so that he couldn't see the weakness with his own eyes.

Having seen the symptoms before Bruce asked, "They give you Nolex?"

Clint stared at Bruce like he couldn't figure out what language the doctor had switched to. Trying not to make his eye roll to obvious, Banner corrected, "The tiny round blue pills."

Understanding registered in the archer's grey eyes and he held up his other wrist displaying the bungee bracelet securing the white pill bottle to the patient. "I'm crazy, but apparently someone thinks I should self medicate."

Bruce let out a small chuckle, his own reaction having been about the same thing. "If I remember correctly, it's a first step to taking control of your life again and a test to see if you can follow simple directions. Then there's the fact that there isn't enough in that bottle to any harm even if you feel like you're on vibrate when taking them."

Barton nodded but didn't offer anything in return. The silence, though not uncomfortable, stretched. Just as Bruce reached out to pick up his book once more, the other man mumbled, "How did you end up here?"

Banner froze, his hand hovering over the novel. He could pretend he hadn't heard the question, go back to reading. Clint didn't seem like he was completely whole at the moment and probably wouldn't push the issue if he was ignored. He couldn't do that though, because there was something so exposed about the young man trying so hard to melt into the furniture. The doctor didn't have it in him to let this tentative grasp slip back into the dark recesses of insanity.

"Before this..." He took a quick breath, before he lost his nerve. "Before here, I was doing research with gamma radiation. We got to the point where the only place to go was human trials but the military and university research department complicated things and denied the next step of trials. There was a lot of pressure and I decided to volunteer but the tests failed, everyone found out and when the smoke cleared I lost my job, my research and I snapped. I lost control and people I worked with and cared about got hurt."

Clint waited for the faraway look in Bruce's eyes to fade. "That's... I'm sorry Bruce."

"I'm here so I can get my anger under control and deal with stress and anger in healthy ways that don't result in others getting hurt and me not remembering what happened." He watched as some of the tension in Barton's shoulders began to fade. There was a bit of comfort in knowing that you weren't the only freak who couldn't keep it together and while Bruce couldn't afford friends, he couldn't begrudge giving this wayward soul that tiniest piece of comfort. Even if he lost his fight, that didn't mean someone else couldn't win their own.

"He feed you the company line about being unable to handle stress or did he tell you the truth, that he gets angry, loses control and turns into an enormous green rage monster?" interrupted Tony before taking an obnoxiously loud bite out of his apple.

Bruce could feel the monster within shift and rumble as his anger started to build; he gritted his teeth. He had been working so hard to put that delusion, that false idea he had been using as a crutch behind him, for Tony to so casually throw it in his face like it was real or something. Clenching his hands into tight fists, he buried them in his pockets instead of Stark's face. With a huff he was out of the chair and storming towards the door. Banner paused by Tony who was still casually leaning against the door frame. "Sometimes you can be a real asshole Tony."

"What?" mumbled Stark around a mouthful of food to Bruce's retreating back.

"What was that about?" asked Clint as the billionaire flopped down beside him.

Tony shrugged his shoulders and gave his best innocent smile. He might have made a point of pushing Banner's buttons after being ignored earlier but the point still stood. "He doesn't like to talk about his imaginary friend the Hulk, who he blames all his rage issues on. Like Steve, he likes to pretend that everything here is copasetic and the lies these people dressed like doctors are spewing are gospel."

"You mean he actually wants to get out of the nut house?" was Clint's sarcastic retort.

Stark feigned hurt but opted to not Dr. Phil that statement and all its hidden accusations.

* * *

Bruce stormed into his room. Though the dramatic action of slamming the door was warranted, the facility safety features prevented the doors from being closed by anyone until the magnetic locks were released at the main desk. Settling for throwing the few paperbacks he had been allowed to squirrel away to his room, Banner finished his tantrum by gripping the edge of his dresser until his knuckles turned white.

He stared at himself in the mirror over the dresser and for a brief moment, the doctor really believed he saw the Hulk ghost over his face. If it wasn't for the thick safety plastic covering the mirror, he would have smashed it and all the lies it threatened to expose into a million pieces on the floor just like he had done to his life when he insisted on being the first test subject.

"You're not real," whispered Bruce over and over again until the angry voice inside his head calmed and his death grip on the dresser loosened. He closed his eyes and filled his lungs with a deep cleansing breath. The bottle of little blue pills called to him from within the dresser but like the green tinted voice that constantly clawed at the back of his mind, he did his best to ignore it. He was better than that... at least now, and giving in, admitting that the inner beast was real would be a huge step back. Banner shuffled over to the bed and collapsed on it, putting the pills out of reach.

Draping his arm over his eyes, he went over his mental check list of all the things he lost; things the green ghost had claimed in the wake of his un-quenching rage. He would get these things back, get his life back and all the things about it he loved. He would get better, be a better person for Betty.

The familiar ache that ravaged his heart every time Bruce thought about Betty Ross came back with a vengeance and the resolve that had been so steady when faced with the destruction he left behind began to waver. When he first arrived at the institute, well after he finally pulled himself together to actual participate in life instead of being a quivering mass of drugs and issues strapped on a stretcher, Dr Norris had informed him that Betty had made a request to see him. Banner had adamantly refused, but in moments like this, when regaining his sanity was within sight but still threatened by momentary resurgences of the beast, he wanted to accept.

Sleep was the only neutral space left and Bruce fled to it. There were no voices, no fear or desires there, just blissful nothingness. The last safe place Banner could hide in was destroyed as the first dream he had had in months descended upon him. Violent images of creatures and disturbing looking whales wormed their way into his brain, feeding on the tranquility brought by the former blackness. Fights with a large muscled blond, with a hammer of all things, gave way to flashes of chasing down a redhead in a metal corridor. The words _Hulk smash_ echoed over everything as arrows flew straight and true and somewhere in the middle of it all a streak of red and gold tumbled from the sky. Faster and faster it fell, speeding towards the earth like a rocket until Bruce could feel the cold metal pressed tight against his green chest. The golden armour dissolved revealing the face of...

Bruce shot up in bed, heart pounding under skin coated in a thin sheen of sweat. The vivid colors from his dream dissolved into the oddly comforting white that filled his days for the last few months. There was nothing of interest in the room and right now, nothing was what he needed. He ran his tongue around his dry mouth as he strained his neck to try and catch a glimpse of the clock outside his room. Dinner time.

The heavy arms of sleep pulled at his limbs as Bruce got to his feet and meandered down the hall to the cafeteria. The usual suspects were already present, occupying their usual spots. Steve glanced up, smiling as Banner crossed the threshold, and pushed the chair out for the late arrival with his foot. At the other end of the table, Stark and Barton were thick as thieves; while Clint offered a smile that spoke of understanding, Tony continued his cold indifference to mask his pouting.

Bruce took his usual seat, downing the paper cup of medication in one go dry, just so he didn't have to take his eyes off of the billionaire. The dream had really shook him, the tenuous grip he had on reality suddenly feeling like it was slipping. This time though, he wasn't afraid of the freefall that was sure to come.

Dinner was surprisingly silent, the day having an effect on all in the group. Barton was still too shaken from his session earlier in the day to do much, while Stark had reverted to his childlike tendencies when dealing with things that didn't go his way. Steve, on the other hand, was ever committed to playing by the rules and Bruce...well, Bruce couldn't shake the feelings that his nightmare had stirred.

"_This would be a good time to get angry_."

Bruce shook his head as he realized Rogers was waiting for a response from him. "What did you say?"

"I asked if you could pass the salt," repeated Steve, attempting to sooth the lost look that plagued the doctor.

"No, before that," clarified Bruce with short clipped words.

"I..." started Steve before Tony cut him off.

"He asked for the salt Banner. Just pass the man the salt," snapped Stark, sliding the salt shaker in front of him towards Rogers so it landed within perfect reach. Avoiding the confused looks from Barton and Steve, Tony went back to poking the thick liquid that claimed to be carrots in a former life.

The Captain leaned forward and nodded in Stark's direction. "What's wrong with him?" he whispered.

"You want the list?" mumbled Banner.

"How about just today." Steve gave Bruce a grin that the doctor rarely saw on the blond in this place. It was a smile that reminded him of someone without problems, a refreshing sight in a place like this; a little touch of envy seeped into the doctor's heart. He wanted that feeling so bad but what he was going to do was probably going to push that feeling further out of his reach.

Steve hung around the door after dinner waiting for Bruce. "I'll catch up later," he offered before dismissing the Captain with a nod. Steve paused for a moment to glance between the doctor and the billionaire before deciding to respect Bruce's request.

Banner drummed his fingers on the table silently as he waited for Clint and Tony to walk past. "Can I talk to you for a moment, Tony?" asked Bruce, trying hard to keep his voice from sounding like he was pleading with the man.

The former leader of Stark Industries paused at the door sharing a knowing glance with Barton before dismissing the younger man with a flick of his wrist. Flipping the metal chair around backwards, Tony sat down and began tapping his foot impatiently. "What is it Banner, some of us have things to do?" asked Stark, the brashness being used usually reserved for Steve.

"Tony..." started Banner hesitating under the weight of his confession. To go forward now might mean no going back, but staying where he was might be even worse. "I... I think you might be right." It was out there now; crazy might be the new black.

An evil smile lit up Tony's face. "You're not the only one that thinks so Bruce."


	5. Not Drinking the Kool-Aid

**Chapter 5: Not Drinking the Kool-Aid**

The hour before breakfast was served was always the most peaceful, most tranquil for those who were unable to navigate life on their own anymore. The time made the space they were in feel more like home as opposed to it being a place where they were confined and forced into a specific structure. The smiles on the nurses were always most genuine with the first rays of morning light and Steve found himself getting up earlier each morning to soak up the calm before the storm, not that he was getting much sleep anyways. His pencil flew over his sketchpad, leaving streaks and lines in its wake, and the images they morphed into always baffled Rogers. He never knew where his inspiration came from, but he had enough to fill book after book.

Looking down at the pad, Steve realized he drew the redhead again. She was beautiful, her features being that of a porcelain doll with an edge of violence that seemed hidden by her femininity in every part other than her of such exceptional beauty would have caught, and likely kept, his attention, but for the life of him, Rogers couldn't place where he had seen the more important fact was he had only started drawing her since Barton joined their ranks.

The newest patient seemed to bring the missing pieces to the puzzle they were all trying to put together, but no matter how many pieces came within reach, the larger picture was still lost. The truth never changed, the same story was consistently offered by Norris and his staff but the delusions were becoming clearer, like they could almost be real. One could wonder if it was because there was something amiss, or if it was the fact that their diagnosed insanity was just becoming worse.

He looked up for a moment, just to confirm what he thought to be true; it was a well ingrained reflex Steve had, knowing the very moment Stark entered the room. Normally the billionaire had to be removed from his room with a cattle prod in the morning but there seemed to be a bounce in his step as he perched on the chair across the table from the blond. Steve tried to ignore the enormous smile plastered on the other man's face but Tony's unjustified happiness chipped away at his resolve until Steve couldn't take it anymore.

"What are you smiling at Stark?" snapped the Captain, his pencil still held steadily, perhaps too tightly, in hand.

"The sun is shining, I have a roof over my head and there's the promise of a good meal soon. Why shouldn't I smile?" he countered with a shrug but the note of challenge in his voice never wavered even in the face of Steve's suspicious glare.

The two locked eyes, each daring the other to challenge or accept the lie. The smile finally made its way to Tony's eyes and the desperate need to crow about his accomplishment swelled to the point of bursting. The words danced on the end of his tongue but before he could let it slip, Barton staggered into the cafeteria rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he navigated his way to flop next to Tony.

Clint looked between the two men locked in a battle of wills and let out a large yawn; it was too early for this shit. Stretching to loosen the kinks in his back, Barton pillowed his head on his arm, curling against the back of his chair.

"I got Bruce, Barton," declared Tony without taking his eyes off of Steve.

The archer's brow creased in confusion as he pondered the many implications of that sentence. He wasn't the only one bewildered by the confession, if it was possible, Steve seemed to scrutinize the inventor even more.

"You got Banner what?" clipped Rogers leaning forward to rest both elbows on the table.

"Officially on Team Stark," bubbled Tony with a pointed look.

The sheer smugness of the billionaire rolled off of him in waves, fuelling an unprecedented rage within the soldier. It was one thing for the former head of Stark Industries to not take his own recovery seriously, Steve would even let his entanglement with Barton slide on account of Clint's willingness to associate with the madman, but he couldn't let Bruce be corrupted. Bruce who had been working so hard to overcome and achieve a modicum of progress every day, bringing him closer to the ones he loved. No, Rogers could not let such a slippery eel get his hooks into the scientist; he had to stand up to such a blatant disregard for the man's soul. It's what Captain America would do, and even if Steve was not him, that didn't mean he could do the right thing."This isn't a game, Tony!"

"You're only saying that because you're losing," snapped the inventor, his voice rising in equal measure with the blonde's. The only thing separating the two from an all out smack down was the imagined safety of the table separating them.

The rising tension at the table was enough to banish any lingering feelings of sleep from the archer. It wasn't just the discomfort of being caught in the relative middle of two alpha dogs circling each other, looking for an opening to prove their superiority that caused alarm to flicker within him; without taking his eyes off his fellow patients, Clint could see the rigidness in the orderlies in his periphery. The all too slick smile gracing Frank's lips foretold heinous punishment and Clint had no desire to find out what evils lurked on the other side of that smile.

Clamping a firm hand on Stark's forearm, Barton hissed, "Tony." It was a subdued warning compared to the danger that he knew was hiding on the horizon. Even if he couldn't explain why the concept of the orderly stepping in to break up a potentially brutal brawl was worse than letting Rogers and Stark get out whatever was up both their asses, he knew it would be worse.

Tony spared a momentary glance at the hand slowly squeezing his arm and while common sense screamed to heed the friendly warning, the beacon of self-righteous, moral superiority demanded to be punched in the face.

"These people are trying to get better," started Steve, rising from his seat just like his voice. "They don't need you making it harder for them!" His fist slammed down against the table and though he tried to stay away from violence, he had never wished his fist found the comfort of flesh more than that moment.

Shrugging free of Barton's grip, Tony stood up to match the blond mountain before him. His devil-may-care smile warped into a scowl as he metal prepared himself for battle. "None of us wants to be psych ward adjacent, but come on, even you have to admit, there's something about the possibility of a super secret spy club that's appealing."

"Sit down!" pleaded Clint, reefing on Tony's arm until the billionaire found his seat again and Steve followed suit.

"Is there a problem here gentlemen?" demanded Frank as he loomed over the table. The man had been lurking in the background watching his charges like a hawk, waiting for them to step out of line so he could take the pleasure of setting them straight personally. Stark suspected it was probably an over compensation for a failed career as a linebacker.

Rogers and Stark stared at each other, unwilling to admit there was a problem unless they couldn't solve it themselves. They might not be able to conform to society's rules but schoolyard rules about not ratting out an enemy to the teacher seemed to be in effect.

"None, sir," offered the archer, keeping his eyes glued to the table so as not to unintentionally challenge the thug currently looking for an excuse.

"Good! Now take your goddamn pills and shut the hell up!" bellowed Frank as he grabbed the paper cups containing a rainbow of pharmaceuticals off of the tray Bill had brought over, all but throwing it at the three troublemakers. The orderly didn't stop glaring until the topic of conversation, glasses and all, sauntered into the cafeteria and sat down in front of his allotted medication cup. Even then, Frank simply moved his scrutiny to the back of the room.

Sensing the tension at the table, Bruce opted to fiddle with his glasses until gaining the courage to inquire as to the depressing mood at such an early hour. "Did I miss something?"

"Just informing the brown nosing patriot here that you've come to your senses and joined us on the sceptical side of the institute," offered Tony before reluctantly tossing back his pills.

Bruce cocked his head in confusion, glancing at Clint for clarification. The smaller man just shrugged, rolling his cup in his hand and staring at it like it might bite if he consumed the contents. An audible huff from Frank reached Barton's ears and he lifted the cup to his lips and begrudgingly dumped them into his mouth.

"Stark thinks you've embraced his crazy notion that our imaginary lives are real," explained Steve, realizing the doctor really had no clue to what Tony was alluding to.

"What would give you that impression?" asked Bruce, somewhat bewildered as to the billionaire's motive for such a farfetched tale. There was a brief spark of concern for the other man's well being as Banner caught the utter disbelief in Tony.

"Last night, you said..."

"Last night?" chuckled Banner. Giving confirmation and validation to the outlandish notation that four troubled psych patients could offer anything useful like saving the world would definitely be something that stuck in memory. "Having imaginary conversations again Tony?"

It was a hell of a time for the mild mannered to develop a sense of humour and Tony was not in the mood. "You came to_ me_ Banner." The words were curt and torn between anger, hurt and the desperate fear that maybe he really was losing his mind, the one thing that made him important to people, the one thing that made people _need_ him.

"I'm sorry, Tony, but I did no such thing," apologised Banner in earnest. Clearly the inventor took Bruce's abrupt dismissal yesterday very personally and somehow twisted it until it manifested into a full blown delusional episode. While the doctor wasn't sorry for pushing the often annoying man away, he was sorry it led to an episode.

"You're sorry? How about you stop lying..." raged Tony before Steve cut him off.

"That's enough Stark. Bruce said it never happened so it never happened."

The words were cold and commanding but Tony just brushed them off. He wasn't a soldier and he sure as hell didn't have to answer to Captain Ass. "This has nothing to do with you Rogers."

"Tony, let's go," interjected Clint, who was still eying Frank; the man was looking a little too gleeful at the mounting tension once again.

A scowl morphed Steve's usual cheerful features. "You're a bully Stark and I'm not going to stand for it." The chair screeched as it slid back allowing the blond to rise to his feet.

Things were rapidly approaching a place that made Bruce nervous. He had been so good about avoiding conflict and now it all stood to blow up in his face. He might have taken pained steps to keep these people at a distance for the protection of all concerned, but on some level he liked his fellow patients. At the very least he didn't want to see them suffer 'the hulk'. "It's alright Steve," soothed Banner, placing a gentle hand on the man's shoulder in a vain attempt to keep him sitting.

"What are you going to do about it Rogers?" demanded the billionaire, rising not only to the challenge but the blonde's eye level.

Puffing out his chest, Rogers snarled, "Make you leave him alone!"

"I'm starting to want you to make me."

The air was thick with anticipation and wonder; who would throw the first punch and which man would the growing number of orderlies have to subdue Steve had let someone as problematic as Stark get under his skin and goat him into a confrontation that not only threatened the safety of those around him but his recovery as well. Steve's fingers clenched together, demanding release. It was through sheer will power that he kept his fist tightly by his side.

Tony could feel Clint's desperate plea to just walk away, the smaller man's need to leave before Frank and his goons exacted their control over the scene but he just couldn't convince himself to let Steve walk away. "What, you're thirties' sensibility not going t let you hit a mental patient?" crowed Stark placing his hands flat on the table to leverage himself as he leaned forward into Steve's space.

Steve's head snapped up but Barton acted faster. Grabbing the head of Stark Industries with enough force to leave bruises, the archer yanked Tony away from the table and well out of Rogers' reach. "We need to leave Tony!"

It was like trying to pull a dog away from his bone. Stark never took his eyes off of the table and source of his irritation, offering resistance to Clint but not enough to break free. Barton could hear Bruce's sigh of relief and the disappointment from Frank at not getting to demonstrate how he could force them all to fall in line. He dragged Tony down the hall, away from prying eyes until they stumbled upon a utility closet.

Stark watched, rather impressed at not only the precision and easy at which Clint managed to pick the lock but at the fact that the newest resident of crazy had forged a lock pick. The door let out a sharp moan as they made their way inside and the darkness enveloped them until the decisive click of the over head light switch snapped on and bathed the small space in bright light.

Tony looked rather impassive while Clint just glared, clearly irked with the inventor's earlier performance. If Bruce was denying their recent heart to heart and Steve was still, well still his mortal enemy at this point, then Barton was the only person, the only one generous, or perhaps stupid enough, to try to be friends with him. If this was true, then Tony was going to have to lay on the charm to preserve that tenuous relationship.

"There are two of us alone in a closet Barton, this is how rumours get started." He prayed that the smaller man would take it for what it sounded like, usual brash Starkness, not the silent plea for companionship and some misguided validation that he wasn't so crazy he needed to be locked away from civilized people.

"You wouldn't have liked what got started out there either," Clint snapped, pushing past Tony to make sure the door was locked behind them.

"Pffft. Steve? I may not look like a can bench press a couple USO girls, but I know I'm smart enough to go a couple of rounds with the people's champion there." The crack about Steve's manhood died on his tongue as Barton displayed the most serious look Stark had ever been graced with. A cold chill washed over him as he started to realize, maybe he had missed the gravity of the situation. It was like being told he'd almost electrocuted himself as a child and though the danger had passed, the realization at just how close he had been to never experiencing the next moment registered.

Feeling that he finally had Stark's undivided attention, Clint asked, "You see those bruises on Banner's arms or the way Frank was getting over eager at the prospect of you not letting this go?" The tell tale signs of struggle and puncture wounds stood out in stark contrast, almost like a neon light had lit up to pull his attention to them.

The billionaire shamefully shook his head. His own ambition had blinded him from paying any attention to the welfare of his friend let alone anyone else in the cafeteria.

"The guards tripled up Banner's purple pills too," offered the archer over his shoulder as he began to rummage through the poorly labelled boxes littering the shelves.

Tony had always prided himself on attention to detail but the things Barton could see weren't things he even considered. With a mix of awe and concern for his co-conspirator's functioning faculties, he sputtered, "You memorized what's in our medication cups?"

Tony flinched slightly at the look Clint shot him, like it was the most natural and normal thing in the world to notice such details especially when compounded with the chaos and craziness of the nut house. "You noticed all that?"

The archer shrugged, as though his memorization was nothing, raising his hand to collect the cup of pills that he promptly spit out. A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his lips at the horrified, disgusted, yet impressed look flashed over Stark.

"You know, I could actually believe you were a spy in another life Barton," praised the brunette before biting his tongue at the mournful look that took over Clint. A tinge of guilt rang through him and he realized that this is what it felt like to kick a puppy. "You still don't remember much?"

Clint shook his head, his voice failing him as his throat constricted painfully around the emptiness at not knowing his own life story. Perhaps that was the scariest part of the whole situation. It wasn't the nurses that were built like bouncers or receptionists that scrutinized every muscle twitch, but the thought of being a coldblooded killer at someone else's control and ambition.

The silence stretched on, each lost in their own thoughts but while Barton's revolved around his own situation, Stark's centered around the broken man before him. Definitely not someone Tony would go out of his way to meet, let alone extend any kind of friendship to, Barton didn't deserve to have his life turned upside down like this, at least not at Tony's hand. It was one thing to keep himself locked in the loony bin but it was another to sentence another soul to it. God help him, Rogers might be right. It was a momentary flicker of something in Clint's eye that solidified Stark's resolves; this was not Clint Barton's life. He was in the presence of someone great, and though he might not be a superhero, the man wasn't a mental patient. "So... extra purple pills you say?"

Barton nodded.

"You know they're nurses and not guards right?" asked the billionaire in an attempt to see how deep the delusion ran.

The archer openly smirked at that statement. "If you believe that, then you really do belong in here."

"And what? This is some elaborate plot designed to convince us that we're crazy to keep us out of the way because we really are superheroes? If that doesn't scream admission to the funny farm, I don't know what does."

"The superhero part is farfetched, but look at who we have here: a soldier, an agent with military background, a researcher and the head of a weapons development company that happens to be the brains of development of said company. That's a recipe for ulterior motive and that's without considering that the fact that four very different people with no obvious personal connection all share the same crazy idea resulting in a complete mental breakdown."

"Point, set, match," conceded Stark. It was reassuring to hear someone else validate everything he had been thinking but there was still that nagging doubt that maybe he was crazy and just too self obsessed to realize it. Perhaps it was the fact he had been here too long, or maybe the doubt was just reality making itself known? "What led you to this shared revelation?"

"Coulson's not dead," stated Barton as if it was the most well known fact in the universe and beyond reproach.

Tony wasn't about to argue the reason for the archer joining him on the dark side but it still left one question that had been nibbling at his brain since the first groups session Barton had attended. "Who the hell is Coulson anyways?"

"I'm not entirely sure..." Flashes of a hand offered in friendship despite a heavily bleeding bullet wound, dark alleyways and soft glow of hope danced in his mind at the thought of the faceless name that seemed so important. "But I know he's not dead."

"In light of no evidence whatsoever, I'll buy that. What are we going to do? I highly doubt we can walk into admissions and say 'hey, we're not crazy anymore, let us out so we can continue our secret lives as superheroes.' We need a game plan to try and find something that we can use to convince someone." Stark shrugged as though he wasn't entirely certain they would be able to find anything. It wasn't because anyone who would go to all the trouble for such an elaborate plot wouldn't leave the evidence lying around but the prospect of having to live up to the idea of being some kind of world saviour was daunting. To have to live up to such a standard as superhero, that was something that would make Tony insane.

Clint pondered their limited options for a moment. They didn't have a lot to go with or a lot to work with. "We start by skipping the meds, but look like we're still taking them. Once the effects of those wear off, we'll be more clear headed to make a workable plan." The billionaire nodded in agreement before Barton quietly added, "Maybe we'll realize this whole thing is crazy and we really do belong here."

It was nice to know someone had the same doubts as Stark did. "Maybe."


	6. How Super is a Superhero that Can't be S

**Chapter 6: How Super is a Superhero that Can't be Super?**

Barton bounced his leg up and down trying to expel the desperate need to move. His muscles twitched in time with the ticking clock, feeling as though thousands of ants were trying to work their way out from under his skin. The incessant scribble of Norris' pen was surely going to be the thing that pushed Clint over the edge.

The archer took a deep cleansing breath, disrupting the claustrophobic silence. Losing his cool over nothing was not going to help his and Stark's plan that was only a few days underway but it was very clear now that the lack of medication had put them into withdrawal. The only question left was would it leave them clear headed or certifiably crazy?

"I believe we left off last time with you being in a large room surrounded by other agents and scientists?" posed Dr Norris encouragingly, finally looking up from his note book.

Clint fought the urge to jump off of the couch and rip that notebook into various sizes of confetti just on the sense of finality he felt whenever approached with the he chewed on his bottom lip, a nervous habit he seemed to have developed since waking up in a padded room with no memory of how he got there or why. "Sounds right," he mumbled dropping his head to look at the floor.

"Why don't you describe the room for me?" he asked, turning his full scrutiny on his patient.

Clint's left hand flexed, trying to grip a bow that wasn't there while the fingers on his right hand tried to twirl a similarly invisible arrow. His eyebrows knitted together as he desperately tried to recall the events that transpired at the base, not so much for Norris' sake but for his own peace of mind. Something terrible had happened there and it left a nauseous pit of agony deep within him, an unquenchable hole that demanded the truth, no matter how horrific. If he hadn't suffered a nervous breakdown before, trying to figure out what filled the empty memories was surely going to cause one.

"What does it matter if I remember if the fucking walls were green or pink? Small details aren't going to make a difference if I can't fucking remember what happened!" snapped Barton. The self-inflicted withdrawal, selective amnesia and constant questions by the staff about inconsequential things were wearing on an already thin thread.

"We've talk about language Mr Barton," chastised the doctor in his usual calm that did nothing more than stir some innate need in the archer to punch the man out. "Hostility isn't going to help, only hinder. The trivial details are important because they help ground us. The more you can remember, no matter how trivial it may seem, will help you determine what is real and what is part of this delusional fantasy you've created to protect yourself."

"And just what am I protecting myself from doc?" Clint hated how defeated he sounded and the fact that he couldn't convince himself to look past his shoes.

"We discussed this as well. I don't think you're ready for that information yet. How about we start with something simple? You said you had to enter through a security door?" The patient gave a short jerky nod of confirmation before Norris glanced back over his notes from the previous session. "What was your password?"

Barton's finger twitched in a familiar pattern, the words tickling his lips as he envisioned the number pad before him. Beyond the door was a man in green that bathed the world in blue, that pulled Clint's soul out and stuck something awful back in. Opening that door was a mistake and he trembled with fear at the idea of giving Norris the code to open it, to free what lurked behind. "I don't remember," stammered Clint.

"I think you do. It's just a number Mr Barton and nothing is going to happen if you tell me. You're safe here. Whatever figment you placed in that room to avoid the truth about what happened isn't going to hurt you now," pushed the doctor with enough enthusiasm to make a cheerleader envious.

It was getting hard to think. Between his body demanding the substance it had been flooded with the last few weeks and the truth demanding to be freed, there wasn't any room left to think. His bottom lip began to ache from persistent chewing as his palms started sweating, the lights burning his eyes. Norris's voice rattled on in his ear as whispers from imaginary ghosts demanded his attention.

"You must remember the code Mr Barton."

"_Doors open from both sides."_

"_They can't bank worth a damn. Find a tight corner."_

"_What did it show you agent Barton?"_

If he didn't say something soon he was going to suffocate. The secrecy regarding the password was moot. Barton knew the base had been levelled, an odd fact to be certain of in a sea of confusion, but the fact had never been disputed. It mattered little who knew the code to a secret that no longer existed. Even with that in mind, revealing it still felt like a betrayal of the worst kind but the voices were getting relentless.

"_Better clench up, Legolas."_

"You have to remember the code!"

"_You're going to be alright Clint_."

"_He's got no soul."_

"Four!" Clint shouted over the noise of familiar words uttered by almost familiar voices and the pounding of his own heart.

"What?" asked Norris, somewhat startled to get an answer after all this time.

"The first number was four," repeated Barton filling the void left by the voices.

A predatory smile graced his lips as he encouraged Barton to continue. "That's very good. What's the next number?"

"Seven. Four, seven, zero, three, nine, three, five," the words were tumbling out of his mouth now and though he knew he should keep silent, Clint couldn't stop it. He finally had to bite his tongue as a flash of a dark alley and hand offered in friendship by a man with kind eyes forced its way to the forefront of his mind. "_You're a complicated individual Mr. Barton, but more importantly, I think you might be capable of extraordinary things._"

Coulson had said that. Coulson had made him an offer he couldn't refuse, one that changed his life for the better. As Norris sat there demanding the final number in his pass code sequence, Clint couldn't bring himself to do it. It might have been all a dream, some crazy story he made up to save himself from the evils he had inflicted upon the world, but that offer had been real, Coulson's faith in him had been real. He wasn't going to betray that for anything. "One," spat Clint.

Norris's smile faded into a frown as he looked up from his notebook. "That's not the last number Mr Barton"

"No, no it's not." It was a moment of clarity he hadn't experienced in some time. Norris wanted something from him and it wasn't to get better. "Why don't you just tell me what you want?" snarled the archer, clenching his hands tightly and glaring at the doctor.

"I don't want anything other than you to realize that this world of superheroes you've created won't save you. It's not even a good delusion," snapped Norris, all traces of the formerly calm and friendly doctor disappearing, being replaced by something sinister and dark. "Who would believe an archer could save the world?"

Clint flinched at the sudden hostility. The cloud of danger filled the room choking the breath from the archer who had nowhere to flee and no room to fight. Still he held his ground, having faced the worst cruelty man had to offer before, the doctor had a long way to go before he could be considered truly frightening.

Norris rubbed his eyes before pinching the bridge of his nose. His newest patient seemed able to push every one of his buttons and despite the warning he had received before the sessions had started, there was something so irritating about Barton. The newest nut in the batch of bad apples, the man's refusal to accept the status quo made him want to scream. "You don't seem to be making any progress Mr Barton," he stated, coolly regaining a modicum of his professionalism.

"Maybe I'm not crazy doc, ever think of that?" he challenged, daring the doctor to contradict the idea by crossing his arms over his chest.

"I assure you, we've run lengthy tests and you qualify to be here," insisted the doctor.

"I've never been very good at pop quizzes, maybe if you had let me study." Norris gave a grunt of disapproval before Barton continued, "Not to mention I don't remember taking or having any tests performed."

The notepad made a tremendous bang as Norris slammed it down on the table. "Enough! You want the truth Mr Barton? You are a threat to everything decent in the world. You're a cold calculating killer that turned on the people he worked for. You want to know what happened with Agent Coulson?" raged the doctor barely able to keep himself perched on the edge of his chair.

Clint swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding minutely before reminding himself that this was what he wanted to hear.

"You killed him!"

The ground dropped out from under Barton as the walls began to close in. He tried to suck precious air in through panicked gulps but it wasn't easing the tremendous weight that was crushing his chest. He wanted to beg and plead that it wasn't true, there was no way he could kill Coulson. Phil had saved him, given him a chance when nobody else would. He didn't have it in him to repay that kindness with a bullet. He wanted to scream, to shout that it wasn't possible but he couldn't move under Norris' unrelenting voice.

"You took a spear and stabbed him in the back, straight through the heart. And you did it with a smile on your face."

Clint clinched his eyes shut. He could see it all so clearly, the spear, the way it sliced through his saviour with an unnatural ease. The worst was the surprised look that twisted Phil's face as he realized his end was upon him.

Time stopped. There was only the repeated image of the spear impaling Coulson and the pounding of Clint's heart which threatened to stop each time Phil's did. He felt his shaking limbs grabbed by the enforcing muscle Norris had called into the room and the sharp prick of as needle as it found a willing vein. The encroaching blackness was terrifying but still so much better than the memories that had revealed themselves.

* * *

Stark clenched and released his hands, repeating the motions in a desperate need to expel energy before it built to the point of exploding. He couldn't remember a hangoverthat felt like this, and that was saying something. It was to the point where he would kill for a drink, something to calm his raging nerves. Tony's eyes narrowed on Steve, there would be no greater pleasure than to release his increasing frustration on the blond.

So far he and Barton had been successfully avoiding their medication in a bid to prove their sanity but this didn't feel like sanity, it felt like the teetering edge of insanity. It had started as a joke, a mild attempt to deny what was happening to him. Being a superhero sounded exhausting, consuming, and requiring a level of virtue that Tony would never possess even on his best day. A crazy idea by an even crazier person had meant to bring some intrigue into the lives of the caged patients but now it had grown legs and taken on a life of its own. But if another had the same idea, an inkling towards what he thought, before he had even mentioned it, then maybe he wasn't insane? Sure he had fuelled the fire, but Barton had known something was wrong from the get go. Hell, even Bruce had thought things were amiss before he drastically changed his tune.

Rogers' words weighed heavy in Tony's mind. What if he was exacerbating other's problems for his own means? Certifiable or not, he was still a genius and it didn't take a rocket scientist to realize the notion of Tony Stark saving the world was the biggest joke going. He ran a hand through his hair. Perhaps his wobbling on the subject was a sign that the highly paid professionals in white coats were right, crazy didn't even cover it.

A shuffling sound outside the doors of the common room caught the billionaire's attention and he strained his neck to catch a glimpse of the action through the small window in the door. A mess of white coats and blue scrubs stumbled down the hall. Alarm gripped Tony as he realized it was Barton in the middle of the escort, being forced back to his room under someone else's power. Stark found himself striding towards the door before his brain even connected he'd gotten off the couch.

"Sit down Mr Stark!" warned Frank, moving to put himself between Tony and the door.

The inventor protested, "I just need..." while trying to move around the large enforcer.

Frank glanced behind him to check on the progress his colleagues were making with Barton. "You don't need to do anything except sit down and shut up." He folded his arms across his chest to emphasize his point.

"But..."

Frank leaned in to whisper in Stark's ear, "Sometimes unruly patients need to be dealt with and unless you'd like to join your friend in his impersonation of a ragdoll, I suggest you leave my sight."

Tony aimed for a defiant glare but getting himself drugged into submission wasn't going to help Clint. The whole situation reeked of underhandedness. Barton was anything but defiant around the ward; sneaky, yes, stubborn, definitely but the man had gone to great lengths to avoid being defiant in an effort not to tip off the hired help that he was onto their nefarious ways.

Getting himself thrown in isolation wasn't going to do anyone any good, so he begrudgingly moved back to his seat. Walking towards the couch, Tony glanced at Rogers' portfolio of artwork which he hid behind. The image of the young woman was eerily familiar and raised a whole new set of questions. Turning sharp eyes to the blond sitting across from him, he asked, "How do you know Miss Rushman?"

"Who?" asked Steve, startled by the fact that Stark decided he was worth his attention today.

The billionaire pointed to the sketch pad. "Natalie Rushman, works in legal when she's not in Tokyo modeling."

"I don't know her," confessed the Captain, putting aside his personal feelings for Stark in an attempt to get answers, "but I can't get her out of my head either. Figured she must work here somewhere and that's where I saw her... she works for you?"

"She did. Been locked up in the loony bin for awhile Rogers, who knows who Stane's hired or fired since then." Shaking his head in dismay at the empire he lost, Tony pressed, "You don't think that's odd?"

"What?"

"You're drawing someone who worked for me, that you claim to have never met. You're not stupid Steve, there's a lot of coincidence around here," pointed out Tony. He leaned forward emphasizing his point further, his previous doubt crumbling under the weight of revelation. "Why us four? Why are we the only ones on this wing, more importantly why can't we socialize with the patients on the other floors?"

Steve quirked an eyebrow. "Because we're dangerous Tony, and delusional."

"Do you honestly believe Bruce or Barton have it in them to kill people, in cold blood no less," posed Stark.

"Yes I do," stated Steve. It was far too much of a generalization, the men he had come to know weren't monsters, but then again he didn't think he was capable of anything he had done either. "In the right situation, people are capable of anything."

"Exactly, so why can't this be fake?" Both men paused as Banner sauntered into the room, flopping down on the couch next to Steve, already buried deep in his novel.

"Show him your picture," demanded Tony, snapping his fingers and pointing at the newest arrival to the common room.

Rogers passed the drawing over, but not without frowning; it was hard to determine Stark's motivation sometimes. Bruce took the picture reluctantly, not sure what game he had happened upon but not wanting to be involved in an episode like last time. What he saw surprised him.

"I know her," sputtered Bruce. He had seen fear in those green eyes on more than one occasion and deep down he knew he had been responsible for it.

"Natalie Rushman from the legal department at Stark Industries," answered Tony, hoping to hear some wild tale of how Bruce managed to tangle with Stark legal and live to tell about it.

"That's not right," insisted Bruce, unable to pull his eyes away from the picture. There was something just beneath the surface that wanted to come out, something he should remember, but everything was fuzzy, distant and green.

"Yes it is," objected the billionaire, hiding none of the offense he felt at being called a liar.

"No, her name's not Natalie, it's..." The name danced on the tip of the doctor's tongue, it was right there, but he couldn't get his mouth to form the word.

"Natasha," whispered Steve as though he was afraid to share his revelation with the world.

"She's part of the team," added Tony; something had snapped into place and suddenly he could clearly see Natasha around the tower engaging in normal everyday activities.

"Not the superhero thing again, Tony. That idea is so preposterous, it's crazy!" Bruce rubbed his forehead trying to alleviate the oncoming headache.

"We don't have anything that makes us super, Stark. How could we possibly be heroes?" The idea itself was appealing. Standing up for right and wrong, defending the helpless but Steve knew he didn't have the attributes that would make him worthy of such a position. What hero would start life as a scrawny kid from Brooklyn?

"I don't know, but in this psychotic world it's the only thing that makes sense to me."

"Answer me this, Tony," asked Bruce, his scepticism ablaze, "if we're part of a team of heroes, then where the hell is the rest of the team?"


	7. Fake it 'Till You Make it

**Chapter 7: Fake it 'Till You Make it**

The sun glistened off of the red and gold of Iron Man's suit as it zoomed across the cityscape, narrowly dodging the repetitive laser cannon being discharged from the rooftop. The disturbance had been reported earlier and SHIELD had responded with force. The Avengers arrived on the scene followed by a caravan of nondescript black vehicles. The black clad agents formed a barrier, ushering civilians out of the way for the inevitable smack down that was going to take place once again on the streets of New York.

"Iron Man, I need you down on Eighth Street. Romanoff and I have things contained here but one of them has taken hostages in a local diner down that way,"commanded Captain America over the comms.

"Understood," replied the red rocket before blasting off towards his new destination.

Captain America turned towards the highest building, tapping his comm. a second time. "Hawkeye, I need you to take out the men operating that cannon. They're going to slaughter us down here."

"I'm working on it Captain," came the frustrated reply over the sound of distant gunfire, "this isn't as easy as it looks."

Natasha rolled her eyes as she moved flawlessly through the group of thugs, dispatching them with little effort. The whole thing was a sad attempt by an even sadder mastermind to make a name for himself by engaging the Avengers in a public battle. Really it should have been over twenty minutes ago, but their track record of late had been abysmal.

"I can take them out," insisted Natasha, moving towards the fire escape before receiving an answer. Someone had to put an end to this and it certainly wasn't going to be this team. It would have been so much easier if she could do it herself but everyone's hands seemed to be tied by pretence, and though these people were competent in their own right, they certainly didn't demonstrate it here.

"Negative, Romanoff. Hawkeye has..." His words were cut off as a bullet slice through his forearm. Curling the wounded limb towards his chest, Captain America bit back a cry of pain.

Black Widow paused with her hand on the first rung of the ladder. The debate between continuing and turning back for her teammate didn't last long; reluctantly she turned to move back to the injured man. "Widow to Sitwell," she calmly spoke into her radio, the anger in her voice masked behind practiced smoothness. "Captain America's down. Taking him to the barricade, have medical waiting."

Her head shot up as an arrow flew past, far closer than she was comfortable with considering the circumstances. Her eyes narrowed in on the figure on the roof who offered an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, Widow. That one got away from me."

A frustrated huff escaped her lips as she fought back the urge to scream. Tapping her comm. again, she continued, "I'm going to take these clowns out myself."

Later when the medics claimed she threw Captain America at them, quite literally threw him, she would overwhelmingly deny it, no matter how satisfying it had been to do so. Amidst the chaos of weapons fire and wayward arrows, Natasha slinked up the fire escape to take out all four men by surprise and secure the cannon. With the all clear sounded, the SHIELD agents moved in, making short work of the remaining henchmen armed with nothing more than run of the mill side arms.

Romanoff was a statue as she sat on the gurney letting one of the medics flutter around her, suturing a small cut above her eye. Sitwell approached cautiously, hoping to stay on her good side. The assassin had been extremely volatile over the last few months and her fuse was growing shorter with each passing day.

"Well that was all very unorthodox," the agent muttered, aiming for casual but just falling short of it. The inner circle of trust was hard to breach, and he doubted he would ever get there, but really, all he could do was try.

Natasha shot him a death glare, but didn't say anything and much to Sitwell's relief, didn't move a muscle.

"So Hawkeye was a little off today. It happens," he offered apologetically, his fingertips twirling the edge of his suit jacket nervously. He was spared anymore awkwardness by Iron Man dropping down beside them.

"Everyone alright?" came the synthesized voice of the metal man before he reached up to flip his faceplate up.

"Nothing serious," stated Natasha coldly, "at least until I get a hold of Hawkeye."

Colonel Rhodes face went from concerned to extremely wary. He had been working with Romanoff for the last couple months but still didn't know how to receive her. The temporary Iron Man definitely preferred working for the military rather than a highly trained assassin and shadowy government agency. Things were a bit more clearly defined and people asked more questions when people disappeared under mysterious circumstances.

"Where's Thor?" asked Sitwell, trying to steer the conversation to slightly better territory.

Tipping his head in the direction he had just come, Rhodes replied, resisting the urge to fold his arms across his chest as he would for any of Stark's antics, "A couple of them decided to run. Thor opted to chase them down, something about an old sporting game he used to play on Asgard." He was never going to get use to some of the personalities on this team.

Sitwell pulled out his radio, broadcasting to the agents in the field. "Thor is engaged in pursuit of two hostiles. Please dissuade him from continuing and send him back to the rally point." Rubbing his forehead he muttered to himself, "I don't need this." Coulson picked a hell of a time to take some personal time, even if the trans-dimensional resurrection justified it. Being gone did put Coulson out of the loop of this highly classified situation but Sitwell was still surprised that Fury didn't breach that protocol and bring the man back for this, not that there was anything he could do that SHIELD wasn't currently doing.

"Any news on Tony or the team yet?" asked Rhodes, hope still evident in his voice despite months of disappointment. Natasha perked up a little at the mention of the team.

Casting his eyes towards his shoes to avoid the looks of disappointment, Sitwell swallowed, trying to get his voice past the ever present lump in his throat. "Nothing to report yet. We thank you for your continued assistance in this venture Colonel and will keep you apprised should we find any information on Mr Stark.

The sadness and desperation was thick in the air. Banner, Rogers, Barton and Stark had vanished months ago and much to SHIELD's surprise and disappointment, they had no leads on their missing men. Not hiding his disappointment, Rhodes gave a curt nod before sliding the faceplate back in place on a suit so similar to Iron Patriot yet so foreign; red and gold definitely belonged to someone else. "You can thank me by finding Tony. You better find him soon, Stark's the only one that can pull this whole Iron Man thing off properly. Groupies aren't really my thing." It was a poorly formed joked to hide the emptiness the man felt at losing his best friend; it was Afghanistan all over again. Iron Man blasted off, streaking across the sky, making a very public trip back to Stark Tower.

"We need to talk about these imposters, Sitwell," snapped Natasha shooing the medic away.

"They're not imposters Romanoff, they're your substitute team members until the real ones can be found," corrected the senior agent with as much belief as he could muster. God help, he was starting to miss Barton's insubordination and Stark's... well he wouldn't go that far.

"They're rookies and they're going to get someone killed. Besides, no one is going to believe that that was Captain America out there," replied Natasha, spring off of the gurney in one graceful motion. "Not to mention what you're doing to Barton's reputation as a marksman."

"Well they better believe," stammered Sitwell as he followed Natasha through the sea of agents that had gathered around Thor, who was holding two henchmen up by their ankles. "Fury needs the world to believe that the Avengers are all present and accounted for. If our enemies catch wind that we're down four members..."

"Anyone that believes that that man is Hawkeye," started Romanoff, pointing at the agent donning the Hawkeye uniform, "needs their head examined. He's better at taking his own people out than he is at taking down the bad guys." It had been a long couple of months, worry and frustration plaguing her at every turn. Fury's plan wasn't wrong, the image of the Avengers was a deterrent for most, even with the unexplained absence of the Hulk from all recent battles. She understood the reasoning, but at the end of the day it wasn't the team she had come to trust fighting beside her. It certainly wasn't her partner, the man who had spared and saved her life more times that she could count, that had her back in any situation. There was also the all encompassing despair at not knowing if any of them were still alive, let alone where they were or what was happening to them. The fire that had burned with belief that they were going to be found had dwindled to a small ember of hope over the months and if not for Fury's revolving door of replacement cast members, the remaining Avengers feared they would have developed an acceptable comradery with the imposters by now.

"Archery isn't the easiest thing to train our agents in. The only one who could instruct with any sort of success was Agent Barton. It's not perfect but it's the best we can do under the circumstances," assured the balding man, biting back his offense at the suggestion they weren't taking the whole thing seriously.

"Then do better Sitwell or give me someone I can _convince_ to give us information," suggested Romanoff, the underlying threat crystal clear behind her delicate calm voice. With her hand on her hip she turned to Thor, who was still holding both men by the ankle above his head to settle some sort of bet by the junior agents as to how long he could do so. "Put them down Thor," she snapped.

Instantly the thunder god released his grip allowing both men to face plant on the ground. He silently fell in step behind the Black Widow, the pair a silent force moving through the bustle of agents who parted for them like the Red Sea. Once the danger had passed the last two Avengers standing would leave together, sparing no time for pleasantries or debriefing with the current drafted replacements of the week. No one ever commented or questioned it for fear of being the release valve for their pent up anger. Agent Chase Valley, Captain America 3.0, had been a cautionary tale in not believing their role on the team. Surprisingly it had been Thor, not Romanoff, that broke the man's jaw over a Captain America sounding speech about team relations.

The pair quietly slipped into the back of the limo Happy always had waiting for them, taking them back to the tower. "Anything yet?" asked the driver trying to put as much hope in his words as he could.

"No." The word was whispered but it felt like a punch in the gut. Even Thor let out a small growl, clenching his hammer tighter, at Natasha's declaration.

"It has been far too long. Should we not take matters into our own hands?" questioned Thor. Inaction had never been his forte and it seemed all they had done since their friends disappeared had been wait.

"What would you like to do Thor? We don't know who has them, why they chose them or where they've taken them. I would jump at the chance to slit someone's throat if I thought it would get us closer to finding them, but whoever did it is very good at being quiet about it." The words were tumbling out faster and faster as she went, "Fifty-six deep undercover agents have gone to great lengths to see if the groups they're infiltrating know anything. Fury has sent no less than fifty more agents in undercover trying to find any crumb of information. You yourself have checked with your _foreign _contacts and nothing. I'd say they vanished off the face of the Earth, but you'd probably be able to find them then." It was a familiar rant, one that took place between the two Avengers, every time they heard the familiar words _nothing new to report_.

The god of thunder felt irritation roll off his skin, but he said nothing, there was no reason to respond. There was nothing more to report, nothing more to say, other than the fact that there was more he could be doing. All that power at his fingertips and yet there was nothing Thor could do to help those he had embraced as brothers. It was made worse every day by watching those at Fury's command scramble like ants in the mundane dance of _trying_ to rescue the team, a team that for all intents and purposes had seemed to vanish. What good was the power of Thor if it could not be used to save those he held dear?

There was also the lingering fear regarding those that had taken the team. These were not men that would go quietly into the night yet some_one_ was successfully keeping the team from returning home. Could they be able to stand against someone who had managed to circumvent the force of Captain America, the might of the Hulk, the ingenuity of Stark and the resourcefulness of Barton.

Loki's threat of evil on the horizon flashed through Thor's head, igniting a fire of determination deep in his soul. He might have failed his friends but he would not fail Misgard. He would protect this realm at all costs. He would do it for honor, he would do it for Jane, he would do it for the Avengers.

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Their abject misery oozed off of them as they entered the Tower. Pepper didn't even need to ask the question anymore, their faces said it all. Silently they retreated to their rooms to mourn the loss of another day that had started with hope yet fallen to disappointment.

Natasha's hand hovered over the light switch in her dark room. "Are you suicidal sir?" she asked with a tint of concern for the figure shrouded in shadow sitting at her kitchen table.

"I have something for you, Agent Romanoff," replied Fury in his usual gruff voice, unfazed at how close he was to flirting with death by appearing unannounced in Black Widow's quarters.

She turned the lights on before joining the Director at the table. Wordlessly he pushed a file across the table. "Who do you want me to kill?" she asked without hesitation, an eerie eagerness pulling the soft lines around her mouth.

"That would be counterproductive to this mission Agent." Fury nodded towards the folder and waited patiently for her to read the contents.

She raised an eyebrow as she turned the page. Careful to not get her hopes up, she cautiously asked, "How certain are we that this information is accurate?"

"Not as sure as I would like. That's why I want you to track this man down and find me something I can be sure of." Fury's clenched hand rested on the table, the stench of failure had lingered in the air for far too long. Agents went missing all the time; it was a hazard of the job and though unfortunate, a burden he had come to carry well. This was personal though. Someone thought they could waltz in and take four of his handpicked assets, _his_ Avengers and get away with it. Such boldness could not go unanswered and the fact that it had gone on so long was adding insult to injury.

"He thinks they're alive though?" It was hard to keep hope down where it belonged, firmly attached to reality. If the team was alive and hadn't managed to escape or contact SHIELD, then Natasha wasn't sure she wanted to find what was left of the men she considered family. The possible horrors were too many to consider and only a fool would believe that she would get them back whole at this point in the game.

"He believes so but his price for further information is asylum. I wouldn't put it past him to be telling us what we want to hear to get to that end," informed Fury sternly.

"And just who is..." Romanoff glanced at the unfamiliar name on the top of the file. "Nathan Hedrick?"

"No one of importance to any of our operations except for this matter. I want you to find him, verify his information and if it's useful bring him back here. If it's not..." The order didn't need to be given. Even if it wasn't implied, Romanoff would dispatch the poor soul that thought to mislead them about the team. Fury silently stood up and walked to the door, his black leather coat trailing in his wake. He paused at the door, resting his hand against the door frame as if holding himself there, forcing himself to remind Romanoff, "Keep me informed."

She let out a long breath as the director finally cleared the room. It was scary how well members of SHIELD had come to know her. Falling out of Fury's favour would mean she was no longer kept abreast on the search for the team. The Director had just given her explicit instruction not to go off rogue in search of the Avengers and as hard as it would be to return, possibly empty handed, she would follow this order. Reaching down she pulled the knife she kept in her boot and began to twirl it, needing to feel something real in the wake of numbness losing her team had caused. She pored over the documents putting together a plan to with a singular focus until the night sky kissed the early rays of dawn.


	8. 99 Problems and the Hulk Can't be One

**Chapter 8: 99 Problems and the Hulk Can't be One**

Barton let out a gasp as a distorted face loomed over him, the elongated features illuminated in the light slowly filtering into the otherwise dark room. He tried to fight, to push the monster away, but his limbs seemed to have minds of their own. Instead of mounting a resistance to the hands that were grabbing at him, bruising his skin under their power, he ended up as a heap on the floor beside his cot. A deep throaty chuckle pierced the blackness of Clint's glorified cell as Frank ordered his fellow orderlies to haul the archer to his feet.

They managed to drag the archer out of the theoretical safety of his room before panic caused Clint to start thrashing and fighting the hands holding him up. A set of hands slipped free in the struggle, allowing Barton to yank his other arm loose before booking it down the hall as fast as his wobbly legs could carry him. He staggered into the wall a few times but managed to slip into the common room, jamming a broom from the nurses' station through the handle of the door. The orderlies pounded on the door, trying to break through to the patient that had locked himself on the other side.

Clint looked around the empty room for anything he could use as a weapon only to discover the room wasn't so empty. Bruce stared at him in surprise with wide eyes from his place on the couch. The doctor had curled up with one of his books in an attempt to court sleep, having spent the last hour tossing and turning on his cot. His good behavior had earned him special favors and privileges from Nurse Fallon, but in witnessing the distressing situation of Barton fleeing from the orderlies, Banner was starting to rethink his luxury alone time.

"Bruce, you have to help me," panted Clint, as he frantically tested all the windows for an escape route.

Banner slowly closed his book and placed it on the table, careful not to make any sudden movements that would startle the smaller man. "Why don't you sit down for a moment? I'm sure if you just calm down, the nurses can help you with whatever episode you're having," he soothed, placing his book on the table and relaxing his shoulders as so not to show the tension he was feeling.

"God damn it Bruce, they're not trying to help us," cried Clint as he moved to stand in front of the brunet. His eyes were wild with desperation and his hands had a mild tremor to them. Kneeling down to lock eyes with Banner, he continued, "Look, Tony was right, we don't belong here. They're after something and it's not our wellbeing."

The constant thud and shouts from the door cause Bruce to glance away from Barton for a moment. He wanted to believe the man before him, to tell him everything was going to be alright but reality was forcefully trying to smash its way through the door. "Clint ... just let them help you," pleaded Bruce, sounding a little broken himself. It was painful to watch someone being in the middle of a breakdown and he was suddenly filled with a great deal of empathy for those he had put through the same thing."I know it doesn't seem like it now, but things will get better; just let them help you."

Barton's hands curled in rage, but he forced them to stay at his side. A sharp snap echoed through the room as the door frame started to crack against the force of the orderlies' efforts to break in. "Bruce, Bruce, Bruce, _please_," he begged, his voice an almost silent prayer in the face of such futility. Clint's stomach sank as he realized he wasn't going to escape this. There was no recognition or sign of help in Bruce's eyes, the archer was completely and utterly alone.

"I know you're not going to believe me, but you have the ability to stop them Bruce," whispered Clint, in one desperate attempt to convince Banner to protect him. He wasn't sure he believed it himself, but flashes of something large and green came to mind when he looked at Bruce. It wasn't fear that accompanied them the way it did when things were painted with blue, but rather safety.

"Clint, I... I can't," Banner apologised, flinching slightly as the door finally gave way to the mighty force behind it. The orderlies, led by Frank, spilled into the room to circle around their intended target. Something fluttered within Bruce, an almost instinctive need to protect the young man before him; it roared alongside the inner rage that was stirring after being silent for so long. It was almost enough to make him act, but his legs refused to respond, instead frozen with fear of what might come. If he let the monster out, there would be no stopping him and there certainly wouldn't be any getting out of the facility; there would be no normal to go back to.

The door exploded open unleashing the hounds of hell upon them. Clint scrambled to his feet, ducking around the couch to try and stay out of the orderlies' grip. The mob moved towards the archer mindless of the other patient in the room and Bruce had to crawl into the corner as the couch was flipped in their wake. Barton put up an impressive struggle, dodging them at every turn until they managed to corner him like a scared animal.

Bruce pressed his hands tightly against his ears trying to block out the sounds of mistreatment and pained pleas. He curled tightly into a ball, doing his best to avoid being spotted by the vultures in the room whose only goal was the prey on the weak. He suddenly felt like a small child again, trying to hide from his father's wrath. Banner had always wanted someone to save him from such horrors, but in the present, he was the outsider, the one able to help. He could, but he inexplicably could not find the strength to do anything but helplessly look on.

Tightly clamping his eyes shut, Bruce turned his head away from Frank as the man held up a gleaming syringe. The last the he saw was the man pushing the air out of it, before descending upon the struggling archer with a smile that suggested he had been declared the winner of a prize fight. Banner hazard a peak over at his fellow patient between his fingers like a child trying to watch a horror movie, as the sounds of protest began to slowly die. The large men held the limp body between them, dragging Clint towards the door as he failed to get his feet underneath him.

The pair locked eyes and Bruce's heart nearly stopped. The last time he had seen someone so broken, had been his own reflection in the mirror after his first 'hulk' incident. "P-please... Bruce," choked Barton, desperately seeking help with his eyes. A tear rolled down Banner's check as he fought to keep himself from throwing up.

Just before the muscled escort disappeared down the hall, Frank paused and turned towards the man still crouched in the corner. "Go to your room Mr Banner." The words were cold and smooth but the underlying threat was enough to make Bruce nod his head.

Banner staggered to his room as quickly as possible. The turning in his gut had kicked up another notch and he felt as though his inner conflict was going to tear him apart from the inside. Frantically he searched all of his drawers for the bottle of pills Dr Norris had prescribed when Bruce first arrived. Like Clint he had been hesitant to take them at first but they had calmed the beast within. It had been weeks since he required medication to keep his rage in check but the scene that had played out in the common room had picked at the loosely woven threads of control. Maybe Stark was right and it would just be easier to give into the crazy and make the most of it.

Bruce crawled into bed and pulled the blanket tightly around him. Pill bottle clasped tightly in hand, he began to pop pills like candy to calm the Hulk, praying for sleep to take him or one final snap to push him completely into the green. Teetering on the edge of sanity was exhausting and he was done with it.

* * *

It was like trying to wade through snow. Clint's feet felt like they were sinking through the floor as he haphazardly dragged one foot in front of the other. It was a pitiful attempt to keep up with those who had tight grips on his shoulders as they hauled forward down the empty halls. The others were all safely tucked away in their beds for the night and Barton's stomach rolled at the thought of losing a whole day. It was early afternoon when he found himself in Norris' office facing down an irate doctor demanding information that Clint simply couldn't find it in himself to give.

The words _you killed Coulson_ ran through his head, draining any desire to fight that Barton could summon. Most of the last few years were a blue mess, but the attack on the Helicarrier culminating from Loki's attack on the research facility seemed to have slotted into the correct place in his memory. There was no more pretending that he wasn't a highly trained weapon, something sculpted into the perfect killer for SHIELD.

There was still a fog of uncertainty perpetuated by the drugs currently dulling his senses and motor skills. There was no longer the question of what was real, Loki had been real, betraying everything he stood for had been very real, unforgivable, but rather, what was the truth? Where was he, what was going on? Was this some elaborate punishment by Fury, some means to determine if Clint was still an unwilling puppet for evil? The scenarios were too numerous to mull over with half the picture shrouded in obscurity.

A small whimper released as the archer was suddenly jostled sharply to the left, the party veering down a hallway Clint had never seen before. Four security checkpoints later, Frank finally swiped his name tag through the final door. It slid open with the soft hiss of electronic gears springing into action. The overhead lights flickered a few times before submitting to their function of bathing the room in bright white light.

Barton's eyes snapped shut to stem the burn from the brightness. Blinking several times his eyes finally adjusted, though he wished they hadn't. The sight that greeted him was something out of a horror movie and if he had not already been supported by Frank, he certainly would have needed the strength of the other man. The archer put up a token protest as he was dragged to the center of the room and strapped down onto the medial chair. Frank methodically strapped his legs and arms down, giving a little smile as he pulled the bindings tighter than necessary.

Clint's heart was hammering wildly in his chest as his lungs frantically tried to suck in enough air to feed the fight or flight response that was tearing apart his professional coolness. He cranked his head around madly trying to catalogue all the horrors and possible exits from the room. The group of men and women in stark white lab coats didn't bat an eye at the scene playing out in the middle of the room, continuing to check monitors and insert vials into the shiny silver machinery laid out around the room.

Frank reached up to fasten the last strap around Barton's head but pulled his hand back with a yelp to cradle it against his chest. After a moment, the man pulled his other hand away to get a clear view of the damage. Blood welled up from the teeth marks on his index finger as Frank's rage came to a boil. Clint let out a strangled laugh as his spit out a piece of flesh he had managed to liberate from the orderly, a move that resulted in Frank's hand curling into a fist before harshly connecting with Barton's jaw. The restrained man's head snapped to the side leaving him slightly dazed. With the other hand Frank buckled the last strap around Clint's head tapping his check to get grey eyes to focus on him. "Just wait princess, you're going to love this."

"Enough, Frank!" came Norris' distorted voice over the speakers. "Go and check on Mr Banner. Make sure he's still manageable. I don't want to have to deal with him on top of everything else."

Frank gave a visible scoff but ambled off like a good little minion. Norris strode out from behind the glass wall across from Barton like he didn't have a care in the world. With practice motions he slipped the devices on the table next to Clint behind his head, creating a small click as it snapped into place.

"Whatever you're going to do, it isn't going to work," Clint forced out through clenched teeth. His wrists twisted uselessly trying to find an angle that would allow him to pick at the thick straps holding him down.

"But Agent Barton, it is working. This is simply a small set back, one that I'm rectifying. You would do good to follow your friends' examples and just give into it all. I assure you it would make this whole procedure much easier on yourself," offered Norris as he continued to play with the sharp metallic instruments surrounding the restrained patient. Clint threw him a look of disbelief. "My dear boy, I am going to break you. You're going to tell me everything you know and when you do, we're going to bring SHIELD to its knees."

Clint didn't get a chance to refute, instead letting out a loud hiss as two sharp points jabbed into the back of his neck. The pressure was so bad he thought his head might pop off and he had to bite down on his tongue, the copper ooze flooding his mouth and dribbling down his chin. An overwhelming dizziness washed over him as he began to lose feeling all over his body. Before everything went black he heard Norris order, "Prepare subject for reprogramming."


	9. The Crazies Are Out, Must be a Full Moon

**Chapter 9: The Crazies Are Out, Must be a Full Moon**

"Would you hurry up?" snapped Tony into the darkness, while keeping a watchful eye out down the hall for any sign of the nursing staff. They might not have been able to talk Banner into their midnight secret agent mission, but Stark was beginning to wish Rogers hadn't volunteered. Turning back towards Rogers' room he peered through the darkness to find the Captain brushing his hair using the small shaft of light from the door against the mirror. "Really?" sputtered Stark.

Steve gave an apologetic shrug before squaring his shoulders and slipping out into the hallway to join his co-conspirator. He would have been lying if he said he didn't find the rush from what they were about to do a little exhilarating. It reminded the blond of being back in the service, when he was useful, and as a result had slipped into several ingrained habits, spit and polish being one of them, just to cover the underlying nerves.

"We're about to engage in breaking and entering and he's brushing his hair," muttered Tony to himself before slapping Rogers on the shoulder. "Seriously, can we make with the misdemeanour or do you need to iron your pants first?"

"By all means, lead the way," replied Rogers, waving his hand out in front of him to suggest that Stark take the lead.

Pressed against the wall, the pair slipped down the hall. Not having any spying experience, both fell back on scenes from old spy movies for cues on how to get the job done. The conversation in the common room had created a temporary truce between the two men, no matter how strange the two of them working together seemed. Both had decided that sanity aside, both their minds would be more at ease if they could disprove the nagging conspiratorial thoughts that had sprung up from the three of them recognizing the same mysterious woman. Stark was still disappointed that even though Steve had reluctantly agreed that something was weird, Bruce had held fast to his belief that it was all just a further manifestation of their own psychosis. The fact that Rogers seemed to be on the same page as him should have been a hint that Banner was right, they were all crazy.

They carefully slinked down the hall and Tony paused briefly in front of Barton's door. Part of him wanted to check on the younger man to make sure he was alright after whatever had happened in Norris' office that led to four orderlies dragging him back to his room. Cautiously he tested the doorknob, finding it locked, which under the circumstance wasn't out of the ordinary. However, the room being dark provided no relief to Stark's nagging feeling that something was off.

"Are you coming," hissed Steve from around the next corner in the hall. Though his voice was quiet, in an attempt to not alert anyone of their presence, the words still had a distinct bite to them.

Tony let out a small huff. "Yeah, I'm coming." If there was time after, he'd come back to check on Clint. Getting caught now, even if it was to put his mind at ease over his fellow patient would mean they wouldn't get another chance to break into the records room. Reluctantly Stark continued his skulking down the hall.

Steve held up his hand for Stark to stop. Both men crouched low to the ground, only thing remaining between them and the hallway to the records room, one final nurse's station. The small office was aglow from the bright overhead lights, a small TV perched on the counter as it broadcasted a rerun of an old cop drama. Despite signs of life, the nurse and night orderly were absent from their post.

The soft giggle of the nurse trumped the hushed volume of the TV and both patients held their breath. The giggle was accompanied by a light thud and short moan. A wicked smile played on Stark's face as Steve's checks burned a bright red color.

"It's a quickie in the closet, get over yourself Rogers. This works to our advantage," chuckled the billionaire, elbowing the Captain in the side before he made his quick crawl across the hall.

Steve tried to block out the cries of pleasure as he slithered across the floor. It was true, the pair was unlikely to walk out and discover the wayward patients but the moral part of Steve still felt like he was violating their most intimate moment by being within earshot. Despite this dilemma, he had to admit that sneaking around the corner and further down the hall, to leave the late night tryst behind them, was a relief.

A couple more turns and one formerly locked door later, Rogers and Stark found themselves in the records room. Shelf after shelf was stuffed full of papers and file folders. "Are you sure about this Stark?" asked Steve, eyeing up the impressive amount of paperwork they would have to sift through.

Tony made an indecisive motion with his head. Paper wasn't his thing and the prospect of having to go through everything the slow way was off-putting. "Unless you want to join those two in the closet, this is all we've got. Besides, these look like they're mostly filed properly. We just need the files from the last four months, anything before that is moot."

"Right," sighed Steve, grabbing the file closest to him and leafing through it, his eyes skimming over the document. "What are we looking for exactly?"

The billionaire rolled his eyes. "Anything that looks suspicious for starters. Any patient file that looks like Miss Rushman or the big blond you remembered for second."

"What counts as suspicious?" muttered Steve, not bothering to hide the sarcasm that was betraying his second thoughts on this little adventure.

"I don't know, contracts to sell our kidney on the black market," snapped Tony before turning his back to Rogers and perusing through the stack of files he had pulled from the shelf.

Steve turned page after mind numbing page, trying his best to not read people's personal and confidential information as he searched for anything to prove or disprove their wild imaginations. He wasn't sure what, if anything, he wanted to find, if he wanted to actually hold it in his hands. What if this was an elaborate plot for something dark and sinister, what could they possibly do to stop it? What could these people even want from them? His mind snapped back to reality for a moment; Banner was probably right and the mysterious redhead had been a patient from another wing. They had seen her in passing and had latched onto the red with their confused mind, warping it into something crazy, something seemingly familiar.

Further conversations with Stark had taken that warped thing and led them both to believe that there was yet another person involved in the so called Avengers. It had seemed plausible then, just within reach, real even. Yet, fitting with Bruce's earlier claim, neither of them could clearly describe the mountain of a blonde's face, who was likely an orderly working on the floor. Finding a file on either of these people would definitely put an end to the mystery. Waging an invisible war against insanity was exhausting and no matter the outcome of this little fact find exhibition it would be nice to know if Steve was winning or losing the battle.

"Bingo!" called Stark, holding up a schematic for a robot.

"What's that?" Rogers questioned, moving next to Tony for a closer look.

"That's Iron Man," he declared triumphantly, looking like a kid at Christmas.

"The robot you claim to be?"

"Not a robot," sneered Stark yanking back the file. "It's a suit. More importantly, this isn't the schematic I drew them."

Rogers' brow crinkled. "You drew them a schematic of you suit?"

"Yeah, during one of Norris' session. He said there was no way something like that would work," scoffed Tony. Crazy or not, no one questioned his intelligence and walked away without being proven wrong.

"How do you know that isn't it or that you didn't draw that one some other time. We've all confessed to being unclear on events when we first arrived here," posed the Captain, who did not see the same glaring evidence that Tony seemed to see.

"First rule of inventing Rogers, never give away all you secrets. It wouldn't matter the circumstances, I would never give him the full blueprint. I'd leave out some important detail, something so small that anyone glancing at it wouldn't realize how vital a piece of the puzzle was missing. It makes it harder for people to steal your ideas." At least sound business practices survived possible insanity.

"That still doesn't prove anything. Maybe you invented the suit before you snapped?" Steve was hoping they had something a little more concrete, not something that could be explained away in the shroud of confusion that was their first few months.

"If that was true, then Stane would have it mass marketed by now and there would be no reason for Norris to deny that part of my story," he insisted, but Steve continued to look as though he was sceptical. "Ok, then explain why they have a birth certificate for you from nineteen twenty?" taunted the billionaire, holding up a photocopy.

Rogers snatched the paper out of Stark's hand, staring at it intently. That would explain the Nazi theme to his delusion, he would have been of age during the war but it created more questions than it did answers. "That would make me... it's not possible. I'm not in my nineties and I sure as hell don't look old," he protested loudly.

Tony had to slap a hand around Steve's mouth to silence his increasingly irate partner in crime. "Shhh. Keep your voice down, you'll give us away."

"What's going on around here?" questioned Rogers. That uneasy feeling was bubbling up and any safety he had built over the last few months crumbled like a sandcastle under a bully's foot.

Tony shook his head. "I don't know but it's not for us to find some mental clarity." Gesturing towards the door, Tony slipped the file under his shirt and followed Steve back into the hallway. They successfully made it back to patients' residence hallway without running into another soul.

Stark started to move towards his own room when the Captain's hand fell on his shoulder. "Don't you think it's weird that we weren't discovered? I mean there no one around, there'd be at least a security guard any other night. Where is everyone?" he asked, eyes darting up and down the hallway for any sign that they missed someone patrolling.

It was true. Stark had been so focused on robbing the proverbial cookie jar that he hadn't stopped to question the ease at which their misadventure had been blessed with. "Definitely need to gain access to the computer," he muttered. Any organization worth their grain of salt wasn't going to keep hard copies of their master plans where just anybody could find them. Even if they weren't superheroes, the information they had found should have had more security than a ten dollar lock from Wal-Mart. "Tomorrow at breakfast, I want you to pick fight with Banner," added the billionaire with a stone cold serious expression.

Steve stared at him blankly for a moment, waiting for the Stark trademark devil may care smile to appear. It didn't, Tony wasn't kidding. "What? Why? And why me?" the blond asked, unable to hide his discomfort with the order.

"We need a distraction and besides, are _you _going to hack the computer?" He quirked an eyebrow to emphasize the smugness that seemed to ooze out of Tony when anything technological came into play, especially at the prospect of Steve having anything to do with it.

Knowing that he wasn't going to be able to be any help other than a glorified distraction, he relented, proceeding to his second objection to the plan. "Why not Barton?"

Tony rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to resort to crayon drawn flashcards to spell things out. "Frank will let the fight come to blows with Clint. They tend to get jumpy when Bruce starts to get angry. Picking a fight with Bruce will create the greatest distraction but you can't tell him, it has to appear real."

Pushing down his personal feelings about picking on someone, reason or no, he swallowed thickly. It hadn't yet been established which side of crazy they fell on. "And if Bruce's claim is true and he does turn into a giant rage monster?" Steve asked hesitantly. What was he going to do in the face of a large mean monster that Bruce believed he had no control over, worse yet be the person that forced the beast into action and thus being its main target.

Tony smiled before slipping into his room. "If he is a Hulk, then you're Captain America, I'm sure you can handle it."

Steve took a deep breath and let his shoulders sag. There was nothing to worry about; there was no such thing as a Hulk and he wasn't some patriotic superhero. Nothing was going to happen tomorrow, he assured himself. Sleep still wasn't easy to come by that night.

* * *

Norris waited until the patient's head slumped forward as much as the bindings would allow, before picking up the chart that had been thoughtfully placed on the nearby cart. He flipped through the reports for a third time; this particular patient was more difficult than the other three but he would not know failure. He turned to the bright eyed, cheery nurse, "Run a second unit before we start the procedure. I want to make sure this time it takes. We can't have Barton undoing the progress we're making with the others."

"Yes sir," chirped the nurse, pulling out a second bag of fluid and hooking it up to the machine presently sticking its claws in the back of Clint's head.

"Let me know when we're ready," said Norris, before making his way back to the observation room attached the claustrophobic procedure room. The other men in white lab coats scurried out of the doctor's way, allowing him to quickly take the chair in front of the one computer screen in a dizzying array on screens that displayed Clint's information.

Norris watched as the readings stabilized, indicating the drugs had taken hold of the archer. Barton was the prize amongst the four prisoners, sure the other men had intriguing information to offer, but a top level SHIELD agent was hard to come by, let alone having a means to loosen his lips.

"Sir," interrupted one of the technicians, his voice hesitant to call his boss's attention, "we have the results of the subject's blood tests." The young man's hand trembled slightly as he held out the report.

Norris snatched the paper away, flicking his wrist to dismiss the hired help. His eyes darted over the page, reading the numbers and words at an impressive rate despite the redness of irritation slowly but surely overtaking them. The days and nights of observation, facilitating a special sort of therapy, and keeping everything under wraps was wearing him down. This was true, he absentmindedly noted, as an ache in his neck and a blurry quality to his sight appeared from only reading for a few moments. Despite the unprofessional quality of it, his next action was to lean over the desk, allowing it to spare his sore legs his weight as he pressed the comm. button down. The movement was forceful, but it got the job done. "Get Frank in here now," he spat.

The orderly promptly appeared before Norris, stance rigid, waiting for the dressing down that was coming to him if the doctor's posture was anything to go by.

"Has Agent Barton been taking his medication?" snarled Norris.

"Yes sir. All the prisoners are given their meds before meals with the exception or the ones you provide them after sessions. I've watched Barton swallow them personally."

"Then why the hell does his blood work show zero trace of it in his system?" The doctor popped up from his chair, pacing back and forth the small confines of the room like a man possessed. "You do realize that without the drugs suppressing their memories it makes it harder to convince them they're crazy," ranted Norris, never stopping to actually receive an answer. "If we can't convince them they're crazy then they're not going to answer our questions willingly or at all. The point of the whole charade is to get highly classified information regarding SHIELD and the Avengers."

"I don't know what to tell you. All our information says he had been taking the pills," apologized Frank, the words conveying apology though the attitude suggested indifference. Mind games were for people in lab coats not hired muscle.

"I want blood samples from all of them! Clearly your observational skills are questionable and we can't afford any of them learning the truth. As it stands now, we're risking destroying Barton's mind by having to repeat the procedure." Frank dropped his head as Norris continued to lecture him; this was a glorified babysitting assignment in his mind, one that he had had the unfortunate luck of it being thrust upon him. Personally he'd rather make the SHIELD agent beg to tell him all his secrets with the satisfaction of feeling the smaller man's bones break under his fists, but Norris and his team had convinced the higher ups that chemicals would be a more fruitful endeavour. The sooner this all went to hell the sooner Frank could get back to what he did best and leave the acting to Hollywood keeners. The enforcer's eyes snapped up to see the doctor right in his face. "If this falls apart because of you, I'll make sure you're my next test subject!"

The two stared at each other, daring the other to blink first. A tentative knock on the door frame ended the tense standoff, allowing Frank to retreat to his fake duties and leaving the doctor to continue with his mad scientist shtick."He's ready sir," squeaked the nurse.

"Let's get started then," snapped Norris, pushing his way out the door and back into the procedure room. The nurse gave a curt nod scrambling to get out of the doctor's way before following him back towards the patient.

Barton didn't even flinch as Norris pulled his head flush against the headrest on the chair. His glassy eyes rolled listlessly, his jaw slack as every muscle in his body turned to Jell-o. The lights were on but nobody was home and Norris smiled at how easy it was all going to be, though that had been his thoughts the first time around. Deft and precise hands attached a series of sensors across the archer's forehead and a multitude of IV lines down both arms.

Almost tenderly the nurse inserted a set of small headphones into Clint's ears, securing them with another heavy strap that wrapped its way across his face running over his nose. It would have been easy to think that she had the best intentions for her patient if her care wasn't directed to facilitating the whims of a mad man in his little shop of horrors. Metal claws dropped down over the restrained man's eyes, pinching down on the skin to keep his eyes from drooping shut. When all of the instruments were in place, she removed her rubber gloves, giving the doctor the go ahead signal.

With the flick of a switch images and sounds began to assault Barton, breaking its way through the drug enforced haze, weaving its lies into his very soul. A momentary flicker of resistance sparked within Clint, something deep down that tried to put up walls against the onslaught. It was a token protest, one more of will than physical but it soon was crushed under the wave that was pounding against Clint's very being, drowning him in the murky depths of nothingness.


	10. The Stepford Superheroes' Club

**Chapter 10: The Stepford Superheroes' Club **

Tony cracked his jaw as he let out a huge yawn. Creeping around at night, though a bit of an adrenaline rush, did nothing for his beauty sleep. Stretching, he staggered off of his cot and ambled down to the cafeteria for the morning ritual the staff insisted was breakfast.

He offered Frank a half smile that was quickly broken by another yawn, before flopping into the nearest chair. The orderly sneered, but held his position eyeing the patients donning blue scrubs. Tony held in a chuckle, knowing that Frank's day was about to get interesting.

Bruce glanced up from his bowl of sludge that was billed as oatmeal, giving some pinched half look that seemed like he was trying to surpass his curiosity over how the night fact finding mission went. Sticking to his guns and the notion that crazy is a crazy does, he fought back the urge to ask, burying his thoughts and his spoon in his oatmeal. Getting involved was only going to derail Banner from his goal of getting better and reuniting with Betty. He had a life waiting for him and there was no way he was going to let it be one trapped as a monster.

Tony tapped his fingers on the table exuding bubbly excitement that made everyone in the room uncomfortable. "Thank you," he chirped, accepting his tray of food and meds from the orderly. Stark would have reveled in the uneasiness he was stirring within the help, but he was too full of nervous energy. The overly cheerful attitude was a distraction to keep him from staring at the computer located on the other side of the observation window located at the back of cafeteria. He just needed Frank and his partner to step away from the back door and his magical fingers would have that computer telling him all its secrets.

Rogers hesitantly sauntered in, looking like sleep had been an elusive creature he had failed to catch. He had spent all night, tossing and turning, in deliberation of his part in Stark's plan. With the early rays of dawn, Steve had given into the madness, deciding he really had nothing to lose; he was already locked away in a place where the current fashion accessory had sleeves that buckled in the back, how much worse could it get?

There was a disturbing stillness in the cafeteria as everyone attempted to look anywhere else other than at the newest soul present. The chair that still sat unoccupied at the end of the table emphasized an emptiness keenly felt by all the patients. Tony briefly entertained the idea of calling off the impossible mission in favour of checking on their wayward loon but brushed it off as residual guilt from not doing it last night. Tipping his head to the side he caught Steve's eye, mouthing the words 'whenever you're ready.'

Sucking in a deep breath, the Captain knew he must be crazy if he let Tony Stark talk him into picking a fight with an unsuspecting friend that had done nothing to warrant the coming hostility. With trembling hands he pushed his breakfast tray forward and slowly got out of his seat. The weight of the orderlies' eyes upon him was deeply felt but he still managed to put one foot in front of the other.

Bruce looked up and offered a warm smile to the blond towering over him. "Good morning Steve." The warmness was not returned and an awkward silence began to bloom. Rogers couldn't even bring himself to look Bruce in the eye, instead he kept his head down and his eyes glued on Bruce's slippers. "Is there something I can help you with," added Banner, hesitant in regards to what reaction he might illicit. They were in a mental hospital after all, random and weird reactions were nearly part of the daily routine, scheduled in after lunch but just before recreation time.

Steve's fingers coiled into a tight ball. "I'm sorry about this Bruce," he whispered, his eyes conveying a desperate need to be forgiven for some heinous act.

"Wha-" managed Bruce before the solid force of Rogers' fist connected firmly with his jaw. The room exploded into action and chairs were toppled as Frank and Dave tackled Steve to the ground. Banner laid on the floor, slowly blinking at the ceiling as he tried to figure out just how he was managing to see the room from his current angle. He could sense the movement and sounds all around him, but none of them penetrated the wall of silence that had wrapped its thick arms around him.

His muscles tensed in anticipation and Bruce held his breath as he waited, unsure exactly what he was expecting to happen. His body switched to autopilot, curling into a tight ball while simultaneously dragging himself into the corner, but still nothing out of the ordinary happened. Then the headache started, a twinge at first, quickly morphing into an all encompassing blunt pain that throbbed throughout his whole body. Banner ran his fingers through his hair, nails biting into his own flesh as he pulled his hands down his face, the need to pull his own skin off being the force behind his movements. Something was desperately trying to get out, but it was locked in tight within him.

Bruce glanced around desperately for anyone who could help him push the beast back or free it from the confines of skin that felt incredibly too small. His eyes darted to Stark's corner of the room but the billionaire was nowhere to be seen. The one time he would have accepted the constant chatter and his annoying tendencies, the man was absent from the scene. With nothing else to focus on, his eyes were drawn back to the scuffle on the floor. Steve was impressively making Frank work for every inch as the pair wrestled on the floor, the other orderly swaying and bobbing, looking for an opening to jab his needle.

Blinking back the green clouding the edge of his vision, Bruce watched as an army of white clad men stormed the cafeteria. One orderly deposited something big at the table before cautiously approaching Bruce, telegraphing his movements long before he made them. Banner would have chuckled at the absurdity of it if he felt like he could even move an inch, let alone defend himself against anything anyone wanted to do to him at the moment. He should have been concerned about the syringe being jab in his arm but as the calming darkness descended, he could only focus on the sweet bliss on nothingness that it offered. Bruce's last thought was it was odd that someone was releasing an inhuman roar.

* * *

Rogers' fist flew and Stark didn't waste a second before slipping out of his chair and slinking towards the door to the observation room. The second after the dog pile formed in the middle of the cafeteria, the locked clicked open, allowing Stark access to the inner workings of the asylum. "Definitely going to have to come up with some line of SI locks. Seriously, who has locks that the mental disturbed can pick in a mental hospital anyway," Tony muttered, pushing the pile of paper off of the keyboard.

It was like riding a bike, Tony's fingers flew over the keys, typing in code faster than the computer could keep up with. "Talk to me baby, show me something good," purred the billionaire. Hanging around the Moral Wonder was starting to compromise Tony's well enforced self importance as he found it difficult to tune out the sounds of the scuffle taking place outside. Though he had to give Rogers points, that if it hadn't been Bruce that had been hit, the look on Frank's face when it all went down would have been priceless.

The computer beeped and Stark's face lit up like his name on Stark Tower. "Who's the greatest superhero of them all?" crowed the inventor in a hushed tone. A couple of keystrokes later and the printer was fast at work producing a small book of information to rally the troops behind.

Tucking the papers in his waistband, Tony pressed his ear to the door. It sounded like the scene was quieting down and he hazard a peak through the crack in the door. It wasn't pretty in the cafeteria, Bruce was being taken out on a stretcher, strapped down with a pinched look on his face while Steve was being manhandled into a fashionable white jacket. Frank was definitely taking pride in his work as he jabbed the needle into the blonde's shoulder like nobody's business. Stark silently promised to buy the Captain his own flag pole so he'd have something to salute when this was all over.

With the circus exiting the cafeteria silence filled in the space formerly occupied by chaos. The door creaked as Tony slithered out, eyes darting around to make sure no one was witness to his latest felony. His stomach clenched again as he caught sight of the figure slumped over the table where the otherwise needed orderlies dumped him. Clint looked like had had gone ten rounds with Frank. A shaky hand hesitantly reached out and shook Barton's shoulder.

Tony let out a stressed breath when he received no response from his friend. His hand slowly drifted up to the archer's neck, heart pounding wildly in his chest at the unlikely prospect that he wouldn't find a pulse there. After receiving confirmation of life, Stark pulled out the nearby chair with his toe before plopping down, his head resting on the table to gain eye contact with the unconscious man.

"Hey Barton, you ok buddy?" asked Stark, his voice gentle and warm like a parent tending to a sad child. Still the slumped form didn't stir or give any sign of a connection with the world around him; his glazed eyes distant and unfocused. Tony wrinkled his nose at the growing puddle of drool accumulating underneath the slacked lips. Whatever happened in Norris's office and the subsequent hours since, had really done a number on the poor archer.

The dark bruises and puncture wounds along Barton's arms stood out in alarming contrast to his too pale skin. It was all similar to what Bruce had been sporting after he changed his tune about believing Tony. A deep ache started to grow; was he about to lose the closest thing he had to a friend in this place because of what those monsters were doing behind closed doors? Banner had done a complete three-sixty overnight and Tony wasn't sure he could handle having to hear Clint say he didn't believe him anymore.

The only way to make this right was to get them all out of there and clearly Barton was in no shape to assist. With renewed determination, Tony knew what his goal was. Hell, if they were crazy, he'd gladly allow himself to be committed to another hospital, he just had to get them out of this facility. Anything would be better than letting these people turn them into obedient machines. He shuddered at the thought of turning into Rogers. Patting Clint gently on the back before leaving he promised, "It's alright Barton, you just stay there and drool, we'll take care of this one."

He didn't feel good about abandoning the archer there, but he needed to monopolize on Rogers' distraction. He had a message to a secret government organization to send.

* * *

There was a weird tingling at the base of Tony's spine that forced him to walk faster down the halls. It was nuts, but the belief that he didn't see the evil possibly lurking behind him then perhaps it didn't exist. It was this thought that quickened his pace and locked his head from turning to constantly check behind him. Things had been extremely tense since yesterday's lunchroom brawl. In all fairness brawl was too strong a word, the fact that all involved were allegedly insane probably made it all seem worse that it really had been. Steve definitely had muscle but you'd never know it from Banner's face, there was barely a mark. Everyone was scrutinizing the patients' every move, and Tony found for the first time in his life that he didn't like being the center of attention. Since he was the only one up and about he felt the staff's attention more keenly.

Steve was still locked away in a solitary padded room, the shock that he was the one to snap first still too fresh in everyone's mind to actually deal with the situation. Bruce, while technically free to leave his room was still a quivering mass of nerves and rage that refused to engage with anyone but Clint, who Tony was most concerned with was still jell-o on the floor; at least someone seen fit to deposit him back in his room instead of leaving him at the cafeteria table.

Tony had spent his night reading through the documents he printed, trying his best to keep his dinner down at the details of what Norris' trials consisted of. It was something out of a sci-fi horror and he was thankful that he couldn't remember having been exposed to it; he was even more relieved that Barton wasn't likely to remember his second round when he finally came around.

From an evil genius perspective, he had to appreciate what Norris was trying to do; hell if it worked, it would be the ultimate weapon for Stark Industries to market for world peace. Manipulating the enemy into believing their whole lives were nothing more than a delusion, thus lowering the guard enough to start spilling their well kept secrets without hesitation or worry... genius. The fact that it had been done to Tony, that part was harder for him to swallow, but it had been effective to a certain degree. It was the amount of experimental chemical in his system, manipulating his mind that was really disturbing, never mind the forcefully violent way those drugs and manipulation was forced upon him. His hand still subconsciously rubbed the back of his head feeling the healing bumps that use to be the open wounds Norris had happily inflicted to facilitate his plan.

Pushing the recently learned horrors aside, Tony straightened his shirt and plastered on his trademark smile. On the topic of what his next move was, there were few options that came to mind; espionage, not his forte, brute strength, not in this lifetime, but flirting? That he could do in his sleep. Hell, he could even do it after a weekend bender where most people wouldn't be able to tell you their name, let alone convince a beautiful woman to accompany them home for a one night stand, but luckily he didn't need that level of charm for this job.

Stark's eyes sparkled as he round the corner and discovered midnight closet rendezvous nurse at the station. It was going to be too easy.

* * *

Tony wiped the lipstick off his face with a triumphant grin as he practically skipped down the hall. Creating a message, hacking an encrypted system, and distributing said message, all while making out with a nurse? That was definitely going on his resume, should he ever need one, especially since she had been completely unaware of what he had been doing with his hands. Hopefully someone from SHIELD would be monitoring all sources of communication and discover the file as it stealthy made its way through the internet. With a hope and a prayer, he set to work on the second part of his plan; free the team and make a break for it before being forever locked in a tiny white room babbling about superheroes and magical, mysterious government agencies.


	11. Some Assembly Required

**Chapter 11: Some Assembly Required **

Stark walked casually down the hallway, his content and calm manner apart of what could easily be his best performance ever. He had been unable to sleep at all, his mind constantly turning with whether or not his message would get through to the right people. There was little doubt now that there were people out there, but Norris' evil doctor routine had been successful in wiping the memory of just who the Avengers were involved with and how to contact them. The message had been simple, the few details Stark had gathered with a sad attempt of an escape plan and a desperate plea to send backup. If no one received the message, today's breakout would be short lived.

Tony waited until the nurse passed before gently knocking on Banner's door. Like all the rooms the doors were stuck open until the orderlies released the magnetic locks at night, shutting the patients in, but it still felt like an intrusion to just boldly saunter in. Especially after the episode that went down in the cafeteria yesterday.

Banner pried his face off his pillow and glared at the man hovering at his door. He was emotionally drained from his episode the previous day, not to mention the effects the extra drugs the staff had resorted to were having on his energy levels. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with Tony. Rolling over he huffed, "Go away Tony. I'm not in the mood!"

The billionaire raised his hands in a pacifying gesture while he slowly breached the threshold of Bruce's sanctuary. "I know yesterday was a little rough," he patronized.

Bruce twisted around, his face contorted in pained anger. "No more games!" he shouted, pounding his fist into the thin cot mattress.

"Look," replied Stark, taking a step back causing his back to lean against the wall, "what happened yesterday was mostly my fault. I told Steve to hit you." He paused in his confession, flinching slightly as Bruce got to his feet. The details of the reports he found ran through his head; the Hulk was real and right now Tony was angering him. The words tumbled out of his mouth, "I had a very good reason for it."

Bruce seemed to deflate a little, slowly lowering himself to sit back down. "This I've got to hear," he snapped sarcastically.

Reaching around, Tony pulled out the now worn and creased papers. Silently he thrust his hand out, offering the answers to their current universe to his fellow patient. Bruce glared at Stark, trying to decipher exactly what joke the billionaire was trying to pull. Tony never once wavered under the scrutiny and finally the other man grabbed the research with a heavy sigh. "What am I looking at?"

"Just read it," Tony answered, sitting on the cold linoleum cross-legged. It was a rather long read and he figured he might as well be comfortable. If he was strategically located near the door for a quick getaway should the information prove too upsetting for Bruce, Tony tried not to think about it.

He tried hard not to squirm as Banner turned page after page, examining each with a fine tooth comb. Tony practically had the documents memorized, his mouth forming the words to silently mumble along with Bruce as the doctor silently read. This was the moment of truth. Either Bruce was going to believe the idea and justify Tony's belief that it was all an elaborate plot thus preventing them from achieving the 'normal' they secretly wanted to be a part of or there was in fact gibberish on the page and Tony was completely crazy. A part of Stark still silently believed that it was all a mistake, that his muddled mind had contorted the words on the page to spell out what he needed to continue pretending he was more than a murderer, that he was a superhero. Deep down he knew that it was the exact opposite of what he was. Sure he had managed to spin the whole weapons manufacturer angel to make himself feel better, that he was doing good, but only a fool would believe that bullets managed to miss innocent people. That had been his greatest lie but the concept of Iron Man stood to blow that out of the water. He wasn't ready for the responsibility of actually having to save the innocent.

The doctor got to the last page and stared at the blank part of the paper. There was nothing he could say, as the air had gone from his lungs; there really weren't any words for it. The revelation left him cold and empty instead of certain and justified. He retraced events in his memory, substituting the Hulk into all the places he had been told to remove him from. A growing panic began to wrap itself around his heart and squeeze, forcing Bruce to gasp for breath. The truth was worse than the belief that he had made it all up to cope with stress. There were monsters in the world and he was the biggest of them all.

"Bruce?" tentatively asked Tony, his voice cracking with concern on the last syllable. He slowly got to his feet, unsure what would help or further set off the other man's growing panic.

"Get out," he wheezed, throwing the papers back at the messenger. Banner curled up on his cot with his back to Stark and pulled the pillow and blanket over his head, shutting out Tony and the rest of the world.

Tony watched, slack-jawed as a snow storm of white papers fluttered around the room. "Bruce." The word was filled with more compassion than the inventor thought he could ever possess, but was answered with a short and cold, "No."

Silently Stark picked up the scattered papers, his hand running over them gently as he placed them back into their proper and important order. It hadn't been the response he had been hoping for and something deep down in his gut told him it wasn't the reaction he would have normally got from the man who felt like a genuine friend.

As much as Tony wanted to stay and reassure Bruce that it was all going to be alright, that despite the evidence, despite Banner's claims that he was dangerous, the man had saved the world, he had to go. Rogers had to be rescued from isolation and he had to get Barton back on his feet, so there was no way he could stay. "I'll be back," he promised before slipping out the door, heading to isolation and effectively ruining Rogers' shot at normal sanity.

* * *

The soft rattle of keys fighting with the door lock caused Rogers to raise his head, his eyes slicing through the vacant emptiness of the cold white room to land on the door. Refusing to crawl in the corner, though it would be a more defendable position than sitting in the middle of the floor, Steve steeled himself for what was to come. He wasn't looking forward to having to listen to Frank gloat but after twenty-four hours in solitary it would almost be a welcome distraction. There was something scary about the solitude; perhaps it was the strangling embrace of the tight white jacket and little choice in how long it went on that was the real problem.

The deafening silence had left Steve with little to do but run over the ever increasingly weird situation. The Captain wasn't sure which side of the scenario he wanted to fall on. The possible truth was stranger than fiction in this case and offered its own brand of crazy but the reality he had been embraced in for the last few months held tragedy and disappointment.

The door creaked open at an impressively slow rate to reveal Stark standing there, keys twirling around his finger, leaning casually against the door frame while soaking up every second of his theatrical entrance. Steve let out a long breath; god help him, he was actually glad to see Tony Stark.

"This must be a first, Captain America sent to the principal's office for fighting. Tsk, tsk, Rogers," scolded Tony with mock horror.

"Stark," he barked, flexing his shoulders as much as possible to draw attention to the buckles behind his back binding his arms in place.

The billionaire rolled his eyes before sauntering over to start undoing the buckles of the jacket. Tony set to work silently, pulling the fabric through the loops and loosening the tension. Still feeling the guilt for the plan that he had yet to receive confirmation of success, Steve asked, "How's Bruce doing?"

Tony made some non-committal noise, keeping out of Rogers' eye line. "Tony," he stated, voice full of desperate need to know the consequences on the gamble they had taken. It had been a wild leap of faith that under the cold light of the day didn't seem like it would ever hold up, but deep in their souls it had felt so right. Thing was, he knew that a feeling of right did not make it so and that this could of all been a mistake, even if he hoped to god that it wasn't.

"Finding out you're a guy with enormous rage issues, that turns into a giant green monster takes a moment to get your head around. I'm sure he'll be fine in a bit." Some of the tension left Steve's shoulders as the unasked question they had all been struggling to answer was finally brought into the light.

The straps finally pulled free, giving the blond the slack to uncross his arms. The ability to move was heavenly and he rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms, revelling in the feeling and the slight burn freedom brought. Tony was quick to thrust an impressive collection of papers at the soldier, stepping back to give the man time to sift through them.

The silence was heavy, broken only by the steady rustle of papers being turned with a growing amount of anger and hate. With each word, Steve's rage increased, both at the people that thought they could do this to them and himself. He had believed what they said about Peggy and Bucky, embraced the notion that they had betrayed his trust and friendship. How could he have ever believed that about the people that mattered the most to him, the ones that had never given him any cause to doubt? All it took for him to lose faith in his friends, his mission and himself were a few carefully crafted pretty words and the promise of escape from the harsh reality he had so boldly volunteered to jump into.

"You okay?" posed Tony, still glued in place with expectation.

Rogers sucked back the misery that threatened to burst forth. "I'm fine," he offered, all false bravado. Neither believed it and after a moment he added, "So Avengers huh?"

"Looks like. Who knew the biggest arms dealer in the world would be one of its champions." Stark shrugged it off as though he was still waiting for some punch line to a joke that had been taken too far. The ironic part was that it was a joke that he would have more than likely told in the past, before this whole mess of superheroes, mental institutions, and general craziness.

"Do we have a plan or..." Steve let the words trail off. He had nothing to offer the situation; his head was still spinning with the idea that all those random images of monsters, aliens and the downright insane were part of his life.

"Not a plan per say. An idea regarding a general direction in which we should head, more of a long shot put together with a hope and prayer." There was a slight tinge of hope buried under the apologetic tone. Superheroes that saved the world and yet it was doubtful they could formulate a plan to get out of the asylum. They were definitely running at half capacity, if you could call it that.

"I sent a message that I can only assume made it to the right people, but since I was directly involved with it, I do assume they got it. They should be sending the cavalry any minute now but just in case, and I only mention it as a backup option, we should probably work to get ourselves out of here," rambled the inventor, demonstrating a confidence that neither completely felt. Rogers nodded; he'd heard crazier than that, who's to say the plan wouldn't work itself out.

"I need you to get Banner into shape, cause I might need you guys to help me haul Barton out of here," added Tony over his shoulder as he stuck his head back out into the hall. All was quiet and the coast was clear; the element of surprise seemed to be the biggest thing going for them, if the only thing.

Rogers pulled the jacket completely off, letting it crumple on the floor. "Wait, what's wrong with Barton?"

"You remember page twenty-seven?" Tony motioned to the papers still tightly clutched in Steve's fist. A momentary flash of pain contorted his brown eyes before he could shove the horrors depicted in the documents back into the box he erected in the back of his mind. The blond could only nod, the queasy turning in his stomach wouldn't let him open his mouth.

"Yeah, well..." Tony gave Steve a smile that barely reached the corners of his mouth. "He's going to need some help with the great escape."

* * *

Stark glanced at the wall clock as he scurried down the hall towards the patient rooms. He might have been a little premature on announcing the cavalry, a skill he would work on later, but really, the shadowy government agency that organized a group of superheroes could show up anytime now. Point was, they were running out of time and the sense of impending doom of being found out was at a higher level than ever before. Steve ducked into Banner's room as Tony proceeded down to Clint's room. There was a fifty-fifty shot the archer was a boneless heap on his bunk, but knowing their luck, Norris probably had Frank drag him back to medical for observation. His heart sank a little as he glanced through the observation window and found the room empty. He hated when he was right.

"Shit." Things had just moved up to the next level of complicated. Realistically, the smart thing to do would be to get Rogers and Banner out, alert SHIELD and come back for Barton when they had the resources and manpower to take the place down. Yet it wasn't even an option in his mind due to the odd voice screaming in the back of his head not to leave the man behind, that they were family. Tony had never really had what he would call family, the Rockwellian idea had never applied to the people in his life, but the idea that maybe these people had managed to break that barrier was too tantalizing to risk losing one of them.

Tony took a deep breath and moved towards medical, trying desperately to ignore the slight tremor in his hand. God he could go for a drink right about now. Trying to keep a multi-billion dollar company at the top of its game wasn't a stressful as this. The fewer doors between him and his goal the harder his heart pounded; a million scenarios running through his head, all of which he felt woefully under prepared to tackle. This was insanity right here, what was he going to do if Clint was surrounded by a group of orderlies and the head whack job doctor himself? This, this was why he had built himself a suit of armour to fight evil, the body that had never heard a complaint for anyone of his one night stands was not a finely tuned killing machine capable of throwing down with the hired help.

He was not hero material, as he did not have the qualities of someone who saved rather produced the tools for people to save themselves. He was the head of a weapons company and the only reason he was classified a superhero was because he had built himself up to be one. The suit had been of his own design, he was no propaganda soldier, no misfortune rage monster, no SHIELD agent. Yet here he was, ready to charge through the doors with imaginary guns blazing because he knew that he was Iron Man, and that superhero did not leave men behind.

Tony wasn't a hero and it wasn't temporary insanity that had caused that train of thought to leave the station. At least, he didn't feel like a hero, not when his hand was shaking, afraid to even touch the door handle to the great beyond that was the medical center. Taking a deep breath, he pushed forward despite the shaking and inserted the first key; just because Tony Stark was not a hero, afraid of what was in the future, didn't mean Iron Man could afford to be.

To all appearances the room seemed empty except for the poor soul strapped down with a spider web of tubes and wires tangling around and protruding from his body. Crouching in front of the lock, he went through the series of keys on the ring he had lifted from the overly friendly nurse yesterday. As each key refused to turn the lock, his hand began to tremble, both with fear and anticipation. Things had been going too well, they were due for a setback but why did it have to be now? The building pressure forced Stark to take long measured breaths but when the last key refused to open the door he wanted to rage and start kicking it. He was in control enough to not cause the scene that his righteous anger wanted to unleash, instead his hand fumbled in his pocket for the tools he had used to pick the records room lock.

The minutes ticked by with no success. The fine delicate work required to crack the lock wasn't new to Tony, he dealt with intricate and extraordinarily small pieces of tech all the time, though he had to admit the lock picking aspect wasn't something he remembered picking up but it felt natural, like someone had trained him into it. Unfortunately, his tutelage must have ended at simple locks because this was clearly not the cheap Wal-mart locks the other doors were blessed with. He silently cursed as he sounds of several feet storming down the hallway echoed off the eerie white walls.

Redoubling his efforts, he attacked the problem with an intense focus, so much so he failed to hear how close the footsteps were until a body slammed into the wall behind him, crumpling to the ground with a low throaty moan. Tony's head snapped up, prepared to put up as much of a struggle as he could, his life and Barton's depended on it. He sucked in a breath as he caught sight of the person standing over the unconscious body, so familiar yet a complete stranger. The nurse's uniform was totally out of place, black being more suiting for her but under different circumstances it would have been an image he would have savoured.

"I know you," he whispered, so mesmerized that he didn't realize he actually said the words out loud.

She stood there staring at him, her green eyes piercing his very soul, analyzing every inch of his being in search of something he felt he couldn't give or perhaps live up to. If Stark wasn't mistaken, disappointment flashed briefly across her delicate features before she kneeled down next to him, her small yet deadly hand resting gently on top of his which was still frozen above the lock.

"You should, Tony," replied Natasha, handing him a silver key.

Without taking his eyes off of her, he slipped the key in the hole, twisting until the telltale click opened it. They stared at each other for a moment before she stood and pushed the door open, slipping silently into the room. Stark couldn't explain it, couldn't isolate a single memory that offered undisputable evidence that he could in fact trust this mystery woman but he felt safe with her at his side.

The room wasn't quite as empty as originally suspected. An orderly burst out from behind one of the machines lined up against the wall. The red head countered his moves with the grace of a ballerina in a quick blur of proficient strength that seemed unlikely to come from someone so feminine. A bottle of hundred year old scotch and this would have been the beginning of the best fantasy ever.

Shaking his head, Tony moved over to Barton while his redheaded hero secured the orderly. Despite his best efforts to block out the details of what Norris had claimed was the perfect way to reprogram an individual through drugs, memory wipes and extreme suggestion, Stark had most of the research memorized. He was able to identify the drugs and machines hooked up to the archer as he mentally ran over the detailed schematics of the base's research. Norris should have taken a play out of the Stark business manual and kept the information to himself.

"So, is it Natalie or Natasha?" he asked as the fake nurse stood rigidly beside him. Clearly seeing the archer like this was having an effect on her and it gave further credit to the notion that she could be trusted. It seemed as though backup had arrived, at least that is what he assumed.

"Natasha Romanoff," she answered, her eyes never leaving Barton's form. "What did they do to him? The words were eerily calm and clinical with just a ghost of sheer terror buried within their depths.

"Nothing good." Tony pulled the last of the IV lines out, tossing it dramatically to the side, like the further he threw them the faster Clint could start to recover. The likelihood was the man would forget everything that had transpired over the last few weeks, forgetting Tony, Steve, Bruce and his healthy level of mistrust of the situation. Raising his voice, he called out, "Barton can you hear me?"

Nothing.

Natasha stepped forward, scooping up the archer's hand in hers while gently running the other down his cheek. It was oddly gentle considering the impressive display of ninja like violence performed mere minutes ago. Leaning forward she whispered into his ear, "I'm here Clint. You're going to be alright."

The archer's eyebrow twitched as his head tilted towards her caress but still he was oblivious to the world. Natasha kept her features blank not wanting the world to see her disappointment that her partner, her best friend, wasn't there to offer some quip about her being late to rescue them or being keyed up ready for a fight with her at his back. He was alive and after the last few months that was almost more than she had let herself dare to hope for but would she get her archer back? Fury's source had provided some disturbing information that didn't promise the return of her teammates completely whole, most of the technical details were over her head but the gist of them being alive if not completely themselves had been clear.

The ground suddenly shook, both Tony and Natasha grabbing a hold of the table to keep from toppling under the tremendous shake. They both looked at each other, neither having an answer for the commotion somewhere on the base.

"One of yours?" asked Tony, more calm than he would have thought possible.

The Black Widow quirked an eyebrow as if considering the possibility. "Perhaps." Her voice didn't betray any worry if she felt any under her cold exterior, rather it amplified the professionalism of a highly trained agent.

"We need to move," Romanoff ordered, grabbing Barton's arm to pull the archer up. Stark was quick to grab Clint's other arm, slinging it over his shoulder to get the unconscious man to his feet. Clint's head lulled towards Natasha's shoulder as he slumped between the two, being held up by their sheer determination to leave no one behind.

Tony followed the assassin's lead, grateful to have someone who seemed to have a handle on the whole stealthy ninja aspect of the superhero angle. Hopefully it would be enough to escape the nightmare that had ripped apart their lives before the claws of deception sunk in deeper one last time.


End file.
